


Rebel Red

by DisasterSoundtrack



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Family Issues, Fluff, Healer Draco Malfoy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meet the Family, Meeting the Parents, Post-War, Smut, a lot of fluff tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-08-17 03:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16508321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterSoundtrack/pseuds/DisasterSoundtrack
Summary: When you accidentally meet someone once, that's just blind luck. But when you accidentally meet the same person twice, it feels more like destiny.A couple years after the War, Draco Malfoy is quietly and studiously making a new life for himself. Harry Potter, recently divorced, is still trying to save the world. Their paths cross in a very unexpected place, and it all goes downhill from there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I told my friend I was going to write an angsty Drarry one-shot with hardly any plot. Here we are, 13k words of pure plot later. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> major tw for blood/injury
> 
> [PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/user/1168369167/playlist/6MYfGTawXkPX4DOfKCn39l?si=ZzkMCXhiQAuO1QajFcU-mQ) to listen to as you read!

It’s the second time this week someone arrives at St Mungo’s carrying their own severed head in their hands. The owner of the head in question is still able to breathe, see, hear and move, but, for some inexplicable reason, unable to speak. Asked for the reason of their state, they just shrug, which is a gesture much less impressive when your head is not on your neck.

It’s the eighth hour of Draco Malfoy’s shift in the emergency room, and at this point he’s numb to things that would, perhaps, surprise him in different circumstances. He just sighs, looking down at his mint green scrubs with blood splatter forming an abstract painting in the front. He was going to clean them, but there’s no time now; Draco takes out his wand to start healing the poor headless bastard. It’s been a weird couple of days, the downpour of rain never stopping, the entire hospital gross and damp, Draco’s hair refusing to behave without him carefully applying cosmetic spells every morning in the second floor bathroom, where the light is the best.

The head reattaches itself and the patient immediately starts screaming. Draco casts a Muffliato and passes him on to the Mediwizards for tests. It’s another half an hour before he finishes his last rounds of the day, drops his scrubs in the laundry basket, fixes his hair again and leaves the hospital, losing himself in Muggle London like he does almost every day.

It’s safer here where nobody knows him. The sheer amount of people makes him feel blissfully anonymous and lets him be himself without making any excuses or justifications. Here, nobody knows he was a Death Eater. Hell, if anybody even heard the words “Death Eater”, they’d assume it’s some kind of goth Halloween costume, or, worst case scenario, maybe a weird cult. Muggles have thousands of these. Meanwhile, wizards only had one, as Draco is often reminded by the scar on his left forearm.

He gets to not think about it as he enters the club, his stylish clothes and effortless charm always working on the bouncers who let him in without a hitch. In here, nobody knows he is an heir to a fortune he doesn’t even want, a son of a father who will spend the rest of his days in Azkaban, a coward who escaped his past to lose himself in his books and potions and healing spells. In here, he is just Draco, looking to have some fun, a drink or five, and maybe to pick up a hot guy.

In midst of the loud club music and writhing, glittering bodies, it’s easy to be a nobody.

*

There's a lot of people here tonight. Harry needs to concentrate hard on breathing. He's holding his third or fourth drink in his hand, looking around, taking everything in. It's still new to him. It's still fresh and foreign, being alone and curing the loneliness with crowds of strangers. And no, he doesn't just go home with the first available person. He only did that once, and even though she was beautiful and kind and gentle, the morning after regrets were too strong for Harry to wish to repeat that.

No harm in a drink or two though. Or three. Some dancing and flirting can only do him good. Harry is pleasantly surprised with the amount of attention gay men are offering him. Apparently, he is attractive in this universe, even without anyone knowing he played a huge part in saving the world from evil. It's a comforting thought.

Somebody is standing by the bar, his back turned to Harry. The man is wearing tight black trousers and a silky black shirt that glistens beneath the lights. His hair is slicked back and platinum blonde and Harry could swear this is Draco fucking Malfoy if he didn’t know any better. Harry giggles to himself. As if. But then a shade slides against the man's face, accentuating his high cheekbones and Harry has to make sure. He'd die if he hadn’t.

In two strides, he approaches the man, who appears to be just a touch taller than him, and taps on his shoulder, waiting for him to turn around.

Harry's drunk brain doesn't make the connection in the first second. “Sorry, I thought you were - oh _fuck_.” The man looking at him is definitely and irrevocably Draco Malfoy, eyebrows raised in puzzlement and eyes wide. Harry hasn't seen Malfoy in about, what? Six, maybe seven years? Apparently Malfoy is now the kind of guy who likes drinking tequila sunrise in Muggle gay clubs. “It really is you.”

“Holy fucking Merlin, Potter. Am I having hallucinations?” Malfoy looks around, and then quickly grabs Harry by the collar and pulls him closer to whisper urgently into his ear. “Did you hex me?”

Harry feels his mouth stretching into a grin. Malfoy is, for lack of a better word, _stunning_. Harry supposes he must have always been; only Harry's internalized homophobia, and, oh, perhaps his blinding hatred for the guy, forbade him from assuming so before. “Never thought I'd meet you here, out of all places.” Harry searches within himself for the bitterness, the pain of old wounds and finds nothing, finds that it doesn't matter and their life is all shiny and new now. Malfoy, coincidentally, also looks shiny and new when he stares at Harry like the world presented him with a very confusing surprise.

“Yes indeed, Potter. But here we are, and, well. Would you care for a drink?” Malfoy asks, absentmindedly tucking his hair behind his ear.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

*

On a logical level, Draco knows it’s Harry Potter shamelessly grinding up against him while the music pumps mind-numbing beats into their ears. Harry Potter, Draco’s arch enemy from school, who once sliced him open in a bathroom during what was probably the worst year of Draco’s life, leaving behind three prominent scars. The Boy Who Lived, savior of the whole wizarding world, so _good_ and _righteous_ he didn’t even abandon three young, aspiring Death Eaters to die in a fire in the middle of a war. The brave, successful Auror, married to a Quidditch star, Ginny - wait.

Trying not to be too obvious about it, Draco picks up Potter’s hand and waits for the lights to fall on it. Since they’re dancing together anyway, maybe Potter will think it’s just a subtle gesture, not that Draco is staring at where Harry’s wedding ring should be.

It’s not. The skin is just a little lighter there, indicating there was a ring at some point, not too long ago, and Harry Potter is right here, wearing ripped jeans, a hoop earring shining in his left earlobe, in a gay club in Muggle London.

On an absolutely, completely illogical level, Potter is just a shockingly hot guy who _smiled_ upon realizing Draco was actually Draco. He has a fit body, a bright grin, shiny green eyes, messy brown hair and he’s also drunk off his rocker, placing his hands on Draco’s hips and pulling him in. It’s like nothing Draco expected coming here tonight, but it’s also so much better than anything else that could have happened.

Two more drinks land them in a bathroom stall, hands all over each other, just exploring, Potter’s lips ghosting over Draco’s neck, wearing his patience thin. Draco heroically endures two minutes of this before using blunt force to align their faces together and lunge forward to kiss Potter in a way that is neither soft nor pretty. Luckily, Potter replies in a similar manner, arms bracketing Draco against the stall wall, killing the space between their bodies in one movement too smooth for someone as drunk as him. He tastes of alcohol and minty chewing gum and suddenly time freezes for Draco, forcing him to remember that he is currently _kissing Harry Potter_ , in a turn of events that seems fully surreal, and he's more than enjoying it. His mind is still not caught up with the expert way Potter is using his tongue and then biting on Draco's lower lip like he's been doing this forever.

This does not end here, Draco knows it doesn't. He also knows he is momentarily thinking with his dick, but Potter is too, the damning evidence pressed firmly against Draco's thigh.

They make out for a while to the noises of someone definitely fucking in the next stall. “I can Apparate us to mine,” Draco finally says into the burning hot, golden brown skin stretching over Potter’s collarbone. He doesn't know what he expects; a slap in the face, a dismissive giggle, a firm “not in this lifetime, Malfoy,” maybe. But they got so far, Potter's palms fisted into the material of Draco's shirt (probably ruining it beyond repair), and the bathroom stall doesn’t feel like enough anymore. Draco feels the other man's agreement in a burning press of lips against his temple.

“Anywhere, yeah, let’s go.”

*

Draco Malfoy, as it turns out, is somewhat of a pillow princess.

As soon as the foreplay is over, he flops onto his massive, silky white bed and demands to be pleased. “I had a hard day at work, Potter.” Before Harry manages to reply his day wasn’t a walk in the park either, Malfoy presses a finger to Harry’s lips. “I know, I know. Just humor me for a second here, alright? I’ll return the favor.”

Harry laughs, because he was going to do that anyway, and pulls Malfoy’s tight pants down his pale legs.

When Malfoy said he was going to Apparate them to his house, Harry half expected to find himself surrounded by old dark magic artifacts in Malfoy Manor. He was drunk enough not to care, but considering his memories of the place, he’s glad he didn’t actually end up there.

They’re in a modern apartment instead, open spaces, white walls, dark green and grey accents and huge windows without any curtains. There’s some fancy magical art on walls and a vase of spell-enhanced white lilies that will never wither on a shelf along the wall. Everything is neat and organized except for random piles of books and papers here and there. Harry’s got his mouth full of very Slytherin cock when he starts sobering up and thinking, _what exactly does Malfoy do for a living?_ Because the wizarding world is small enough and there’s been a lot of rumors about how he doesn’t want to live off the Malfoy family fortune…

“Oh! You’re a Healer, right?”

Malfoy raises his head from the pillow to make a face at Harry. “Did you just stop blowing me to tell me what my own profession is? Congratulations. I swear to Merlin, Potter.”

Harry giggles, slowly running his palms up and down Malfoy’s inner thighs just to be a tease. So the bastard actually has a normal job. A difficult one, too. Harry is almost impressed. There’s a lot of implications running through Harry’s head when he returns to his task of giving Malfoy a blowjob. If he were Malfoy, he’d probably want to leave his old life behind as well, make his name anew. Maybe that’s why Malfoy lives in Muggle London, goes to Muggle clubs, wears Muggle clothes and, apparently, has a TV in his apartment.

It feels strange. This brand new incarnation of Draco Malfoy deserves neither Harry’s hatred nor his pity, which confuses Harry. What is he supposed to feel towards him then? Is he supposed to be sarcastic and biting, or the opposite, Merlin forbid, _nice_? Nothing feels right, nothing except for maybe when Malfoy finally gives in and buries his fingers in Harry’s hair, his hips rising from the bed a little.

Satisfaction spills all over Harry’s body like a warm wave.

He’s feeling almost completely sober by the time Malfoy is done. Harry decides to give the other man some sweet time to come back to his senses. He clambers out of bed awkwardly, unsure where to look and what to do with his hands, legs, all his limbs actually. He chances a glance at Malfoy, sprawled on the bed like a cat, lazy and comfortable, and holy shit, he is breathtaking like a marble sculpture with his alabaster skin and a little bit of blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks, hair falling over his forehead in an effortless, perfect wave.

“Where do you think you’re going, Potter?” he questions, frowning.

Harry freezes, blanking out on answers. “I was - just - gonna -” he gestures awkwardly, not convincing Malfoy at all.

“Back to bed, you.” He reaches out, managing to grab Harry by the leg, wrap his long fingers around Harry’s ankle to pull him in, make him lose balance, press him against the headboard.

After careful consideration, Harry takes back his pillow princess statement.

*

Potter is trying really hard not to show that he’s freaking out.

He pulls one of Malfoy’s blankets over his naked form, almost up to his neck, which is a shame, because he’s got an adventure hero’s body that Draco would very much like to keep looking at. Instead he Accios two empty glasses and hands one to Potter.

“Is water fine? I feel like we need to replenish our fluids after all that physical activity.”

Potter nods and mumbles something, watching Draco fill the glass with water using his wand. Potter’s hair is a hopeless mess of unruly strands and curls and he’s already shoved his glasses back on. His hands are shaking just so as he takes a drink, making Draco’s guts twist a little. The lightning bolt scar glistens with sweat.

It’s like life has handed Draco a gift-wrapped miracle, if only for one night. Draco knows Potter will escape any minute now; all signs are pointing to it.

“Ginny Weasley not around anymore, I gather?” Draco asks, knowing it’s both rude and a mood-ruiner, but needing to know. He’s been keeping up with Quidditch, aware that Ginny’s career is at its peak and that she’s still got years of flying ahead of her. If he read the gossip pages of The Daily Prophet, he’d probably be aware of the breakup, but alas, he isn’t.

Potter startles a little, taking a big gulp of water to avoid answering immediately. “N-no. Obviously not, Malfoy, I would never-” he stops, looking Draco in the eyes for a second. “We’re divorced.”

“For how long?”

“Almost a year now.”

Draco wants to ask why. He wants to know the answers to all his questions, he is immensely uncomfortable not _knowing_ stuff. But he won’t, he can’t, because he’s decided at some point to be a decent human being. Besides, Potter is already on his feet, pulling on his underwear, looking around for clothes.

“I gotta go,” he states, his eagerness to leave as fast as possible evident in his movements. He pulls on a t-shirt, then locates his jacket and puts it on too. “Thanks for - thanks for all that,” he finishes awkwardly.

“You don’t have casual sex too often, do you?” Draco laughs, leaping off the bed, naked and not minding it, to stand in front of Potter before he’s gone for good. On a whim, he grabs him by the chin and places a long, warm kiss on his mouth, to which Potter doesn’t really react to. “Sleep well, and all that.”

Draco steps away and Potter nods tensely, Disapparating with a loud pop.  

*

St Mungo’s hospital always smelled like death and despair to Harry. Nothing’s changed since then.

Throughout his career as an Auror, he’s kept giving away all the cases that involved visiting St Mungo’s. There’s nobody to trade with today though, his boss is looking at him in such a way that Harry immediately knows it’s not a good idea to flake on this one, and it stopped raining for the first time in weeks, so he can actually enjoy a short walk before arriving at the hospital.

Trying not to look around too much (although he manages to see someone with tentacles growing out of their back anyway), Harry approaches the reception desk. The young witch with lilac hair smiles at him like this is the best day ever, and sits up a little straighter in her chair. Harry hopes she doesn’t ask for an autograph.

“Hi!” she chirps enthusiastically. “How can I help you today?”

“Hi, I’m with the Auror Department.” Harry flashes his badge at the receptionist, trying to be discreet. It’s not like the entire hospital needs to know he’s here. “We’re investigating the recent cases of head severing, we know there’s been multiple.” He doesn’t tell the girl that it’s most likely dark magic at work, not just people in domestic quarrels trying out a new funky spell. “Would you mind if I talked to the Healer in charge of the beheaded patients?”

“Not at all, Auror Potter.” She checks her records, Harry patiently waiting and pointedly not listening to the whisper carrying his surname all over the waiting room. “Healer Malfoy has been treating them. Fourth floor, Spell Damage. His office is in room 415, but you have a better chance of finding him around the ward somewhere.”

“Healer Malfoy,” Harry repeats. Of course. Of course this is who he needs to cooperate with to solve this case, this is just Harry’s luck.

“Yes, sir. Draco Malfoy. You can go right up, I’ll let him know you’re coming to see him.”

Harry goes. There’s no way to avoid it, even though he can already feel his skin crawling with awkwardness. Yes, he did have a great time with Malfoy. Yes, he wanted everything that happened, and no, he didn’t exactly regret it. Facing Malfoy though? Talking to him? Mere three or four days after they’ve been trading bodily fluids? Harry is not exactly up for it.

The receptionist was right - the door to 415 is closed. Harry strolls along the rooms of the Spell Damage ward, breathing heavily through a selection of strange smells, seeing a couple of Mediwizards tend to a young girl who seems to be literally evaporating bit by bit as they touch her. Someone is crying loudly in the room to Harry’s left and he’s had enough of the suffering, which is why he actually breathes a sigh of relief upon seeing a mint green robe of a Healer. Malfoy is administering a dose of potion to an elderly lady. Harry stops quietly in the doorway to observe.

“You need to drink the whole flask this time, alright, Mrs. Lackley? You remember what happened yesterday when you didn’t?”

The lady mumbles something, taking the flask from Malfoy and finishing it in one gulp.

“There you go! Was that so hard? I’m proud of you.” Malfoy smiles, something genuine, warm and discreet Harry has never seen on his face before. Where the hell is the smug, posh kid Hermione punched in third year? “You’re going to fall asleep now and wake up all better. That’s a guarantee.”

Malfoy turns to leave the room and when his eyes fall upon Harry, he doesn’t show any signs of surprise. His face remains stone-like. “Auror Potter. Follow me to my office, will you?”

Harry does. Malfoy gives instructions to a couple of Trainee Healers as they walk. One of them, a boy who can’t even be twenty yet, stares at Harry with his mouth fully open instead of listening to Malfoy.

“Gordon, will you please focus on your task?” Malfoy snaps his fingers in front of the boy’s face. “Other people’s health depends on you, and you won’t help anyone staring at Auror Potter who is here _professionally._ And please do not call for me until I’m finished with this meeting, unless someone is dying. _”_ Gordon blushes and apologizes profusely, following his colleague, who’s visibly whispering instructions to him, to a patient waiting to be tended to. Malfoy opens the door to his tiny office, letting Harry walk in first, wordlessly lighting up the lamps and taking place behind a small desk cluttered with papers.

“I apologize for Gordon. I am afraid he is, how do I say it lightly? Completely hopeless.”

“That’s fine,” Harry tries to smile, standing awkwardly in front of Malfoy’s desk, observing a human skeleton, hopefully just a model, tucked into the corner of the room mocking him.

“You’re welcome to sit down, you know. I’d offer you coffee, but nobody should be subjected to whatever they call coffee in this hospital. And sorry for the mess, I don’t particularly enjoy paperwork.” Malfoy carefully picks up one stack of papers and moves it aside so that he can lean forward on his elbows and regard Harry, who finally sits down opposite him.

“So? The beheadings?” Malfoy smirks after solid thirty seconds of tense silence. At least Harry is feeling tense, because Malfoy is showing no signs of being even the tiniest bit awkward. “Because you came here to talk about the beheadings, am I correct? This is not just an excuse that you invented? If so, I just disciplined poor Gordon for no good reason then.”

“No. You’re right. The beheadings.” Harry taps into his Auror mode. If Malfoy can be professional, so can he. He’s got experience, he’s got accomplishments, he’s got nerve and he doesn’t need to feel intimidated only because Malfoy has seen his dick. “How many cases have you treated?”

Malfoy starts talking, not sparing Harry the medical terminology, getting into the gory details of spell-induced memory loss and “something Muggles call PTSD, it’s actually a pretty smart theory.” He’s got extensive knowledge and his eyes shine with passion as he speaks of the ways of treatment he’s introduced. Harry’s quill is jotting everything down. When he suggests that the beheadings are most likely dark magic at work, Malfoy stops and stares.

“Obviously they are. Why else would you, an Auror, be asking me about them?”

After twenty minutes, when they’ve exhausted the topic, Malfoy is leaning back in the chair, rolling his wand between his fingers. “Should I be expecting more visits from you? Or your colleagues?”

“First of all, I want you to contact me if - or when - another victim shows up at the hospital. Meanwhile, I’ll be working on connecting the dots between the ones that are already here… I’ll send someone to talk to them tomorrow. And oh, if, by some miracle, anyone regains their memory of the event, let me know immediately, and don’t let them go home, alright?”

“Of course.” Malfoy nods. “Anything to help our valued law enforcement.”

Unsure if Malfoy is being sarcastic or not, but betting on the former, Harry stands up. Now that the professional conversation is over he’s feeling unsure again, the primitive part of his brain briefly considering pushing Malfoy against the nearest wall and having his way with him, but finally deciding to just extend his hand. Malfoy takes it. His hand is cold.

“Thank you for your cooperation.”

Harry turns to leave, but before he opens the door, Malfoy speaks up, in a slightly more careful tone.

“Do you have any plans for tonight?”

*

Potter is less awkward this time around; it’s Draco who is in some kind of a weird headspace. As soon he opens the door, he drags Potter in by the lapels, pushes his jacket off his arms and starts kissing him almost violently, forcing his tongue in, relieved when Potter wraps his arms around Draco’s waist and starts kissing back with a matching amount of enthusiasm. It doesn’t take long for Potter to push Draco against the hallway wall and bite his neck in a way that is bound to leave a mark. Draco breathes out, hard, and reaches to squeeze Potter’s ass through the fabric of his jeans.

“And hello to you too,” says Potter, laughter tasting like candy on his tongue when they kiss again.

The living room couch is where they fuck, Harry pressing into Draco with urgency as Draco is braced against the armrest, taking the whole of Potter in and whimpering into his own forearm. Potter places his warm, wet lips between Draco’s shoulder blades and for a second Draco’s permanently cold skin feels like actual fire.

Nobody ever made him feel like actual fire.

Draco jerks himself off until Potter pushes his hand away and does it for him, making the entire experience twice as amazing, causing Draco to cry out loud for the first time.

“Oh, so you _can_ make noises other than endlessly talking. Good to know.” Potter tries to joke, but the moment is very bad. Draco wishes he could turn around and perhaps slap him.

“It’s you who needs to shut up now, in fact.”

Potter does, the tension in his body suggesting he is close, and he must know Draco is, too. Just to spite him, Draco keeps being loud until the very moment he comes in Potter’s hand.

Three cleaning spells later, Potter is taking up most of the space of Draco’s couch, lacking grace, dignity and the understanding of basic social norms. There’s nothing left for Draco to do but settle next to him and drop his head to Potter’s firm, wide chest, even if he still tells himself he wants none of this.

“Everything okay?” The questions falls into the silence of the room and Draco takes a second to register Potter is asking _him_. There’s nobody else here.

“Yes? Why wouldn’t it be?” Draco reluctantly raises his head from Potter’s chest to look at the other man. Potter is regarding him with a serious expression, but then he reaches out to play with a strand of Draco’s hair and ruins everything.

“I don’t know. You seem - more intense than usual?”

Draco snickers. He wants to hide. “If you can’t handle my intensity, I reckon you know where the door is.”

“I wasn’t - really, it’s fine. I was just asking.”

The air between them still feels charged, their bodies naked and touching everywhere, Potter’s eyes are ridiculously green and Draco is cold again. It’s Potter who closes the gap between them, the kiss lazy, slow and almost gentle, his fingertips lightly touching Draco's shoulder blades to finally rest on his neck.

They keep kissing for a while until Draco’s body starts screaming in pain from the contorted position. He pushes Potter away with a flat palm onto his chest.

“What, what is it?”

“Nothing, I’m just thinking there's a perfectly good bed like ten feet from here and I'm pretty certain that if we don't go there immediately, you're gonna have to carry me. I nearly can't feel my legs.”

Potter grins and _winks_ , actually fucking winks then, and God, he's so awful. “We better go fast then,” he says, climbing out with suddenly regained grace (reminding Draco of the Seeker he played against so many times at school) and walking towards Draco's bedroom, his perfect ass on display. “You joining me or what?”

*

Harry wakes up to the regular, calming noises of downtown London's morning routine, and early sunshine falling right onto his face. He blinks a couple times, everything blurry without his glasses, realizing the bed around him feels a little different, the covers smoother, and there’s no bedside table where his glasses are supposed to be when he reaches to his right.

To his left, someone makes a sleepy noise of contentment from between the covers.

Oh. _Now_ Harry remembers.

“ _Accio_ glasses,” he whispers, catching them midair before they inevitably hit him in the nose or jam him in the eye. As soon as he can see properly, he notices Malfoy’s platinum cloud of hair spread on one of the pillows. Half of his face is covered by a blanket, but Harry can see his smooth forehead and his pointy nose. The Sectumsempra scar is just a mere shade, running diagonally across Malfoy’s right cheek and nose. It makes Harry’s mind spin in a very unpleasant way, reminding him of teenage foolishness and pointless hostility. He kind of wants to kiss it all better, but he also really doesn’t want Malfoy to wake up to Harry kissing his face like some lovesick loser. That’s not why he’s here.

 _Why_ is he here? Harry has no idea. A drunken hookup was confusing enough, but this? This is different. There was no alcohol involved, they both consciously chose to do all of this and then fell asleep in the same bed after, the thought of going home never even crossing Harry’s mind. He still knows nothing about this new, reinvented Malfoy, nothing but his love for healing, the fact that he is a rather good dancer and the sexual positions he favors. It seems like a profoundly wrong way to get to know someone.

Seems like they got it all backwards.

Harry waits for the regret to kick in. Any minute now. He doesn’t just do this, he doesn’t sleep around, especially not with old Hogwarts enemies and former Death Eaters-turned-decent-people. It’s stupid. But still, Harry realizes he would rather be here now than anywhere else.

The thought makes him drag himself back to “his” side of bed, take his glasses off and place them on the floor gently. If he doesn’t know how to behave, he might as well pretend he’s asleep until Malfoy wakes up, and take things from there.

It doesn’t take long. In no more than fifteen minutes Harry hears Malfoy sigh, feels the bed move as the other man untangles himself from the covers and then gets up, his feet shuffling away. Harry listens to the shower water running for the next ten minutes or so, until there’s the feet again and Malfoy’s voice whining, “Potter, are you awake? If not, can you please be awake now? I’m hungry.”

*

Draco never claimed he could cook. There is so much food you can buy or order, there are bakeries and coffee shops and restaurants and, really, he can sustain himself just fine. This is why he does not feel the least bit humiliated when Potter, as soon as he sees Draco crack the first egg into a bowl and drop half the shells in the bowl too, orders him to move aside.

It feels… nice. Potter can’t find the correct utensils and Draco is sort of hopeless with their names, so he just opens all the drawers and lets Potter _Accio_ whatever he currently needs. Draco gets to watch him move around (fully clothed, but beggars can’t be choosers) and soon enough the kitchen smells like eggs, bacon and toast. Draco figures he can at least make coffee to contribute, so he deals with that while Potter sets the table.

“Okay, so I’m not, like, a proper cook, alright? Don’t expect too much,” he prefaces before passing Draco a full plate of eggs.

“Well, let me be the judge of that.”

The food is very decent. More than decent; great, actually. Draco is not sure if it’s just an illusion, because he hardly ever eats anything homemade anymore, or maybe Potter just has hidden talents, but he is enjoying every bite.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about the beheading victims so far, and they all seem to fit a profile but one, the-”

“No.” Draco says firmly as Potter freezes with a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “We’re not discussing the case now. You’re not gonna make this into something _professional_ , I’m not gonna let you. There’s nothing professional about us sleeping together, which, on the other hand, I’d love to keep on doing. The sleeping, I mean. So, you’re welcome to tell me about any other case of yours. Or your favorite food. Or the last Quidditch game you’ve seen. Hell, I’ll even discuss the weather. Anything but the beheadings. Alright?”

Visibly shaken, Potter puts the toast fully down like he needs clarity of senses to think through what Draco just said. He takes his sweet time, looking everywhere but Draco’s eyes, but when he finally looks up, a small smile is playing on his lips. “They had me investigate this Muggle house once. Said it was haunted. I had to dress up like a Muggle police officer-”

The story is amusing enough, the food is tasty and Draco generally has a very good time. Their plates are almost clean when Potter exclaims, “oh fuck.” He’s looking at the wall clock, showing quarter to 10AM.

“What?”

“I was - it’s Saturday, right? I was supposed to see Hermione and Ron for breakfast half an hour ago.”

“The Weasleys sure like to start their day early,” Draco laughs. Potter is a little panicked, chugging down the rest of his coffee and gathering his things. “What’s going on, is Granger going to yell at you if you’re late? She’s not your mother, you know.”

It’s obvious that, for some reason, Potter just doesn’t want to fail them, even in something as small as showing up for breakfast. It’s very stupid and a little endearing. “Right. I gotta go, Malfoy. Sorry. I don’t suppose you’re connected to the Floo network?”

Draco scoffs. “What kind of Philistine do you take me for?” He leaves behind the remnants of their breakfast and shows Potter to a hallway closet, a perfectly usable fireplace neatly hidden inside. “There,” he hands Potter the jar of Floo powder. “And don’t you insult me like that again.”

“Right. Sorry. Thanks,” Potter grins, stepping inside the fireplace. In a second, it’s going to be like he was never even here, and this is not Draco's favorite thought, not at all. “See you.”

“Harry?” Draco can feel his hands shaking a little. He hates how serious and loaded this moment seems, and it’s all his own fault, too.

It must be something about Draco using his first name that wipes the grin right off Potter’s face. He steps outside of the fireplace and towards Draco, gently taking his head into his big, safe hands, like Draco is fragile, bound to shatter any minute. Draco is _not_ , but he’s still enjoying the reassuring kiss that follows, his heart beating just a touch too fast.

“I’ll see you soon, alright? Is tonight okay?”

Draco shakes his head. “No, I’m visiting my mother. And I work Monday night.”

“I’ll stop by the hospital to talk to the victims, then.”

“Weren’t you meant to send someone?”

“I was.” Harry grins again, tossing the Floo powder into the fireplace, the green flames swallowing him slowly. “But it’s my case and I can do what I want.”

*

Hermione is not cross with Harry for being late, not at all, actually. She’s just suspicious; nothing hides from that girl. If anything did, she wouldn’t have been climbing the ranks of the Ministry as fast as she is. When she kisses him on the cheek, Harry wishes he’d showered. “What happened, Harry? I was becoming worried. Fifteen minutes more and I’d send a Patronus.”

Harry is in the middle of awkwardly explaining that he just overslept, Hermione’s disapproving eyebrow not letting him get away with anything, when Ron’s entrance saves him.

“Finally, mate! Can you believe she kept me waiting for you, not letting me eat anything? Even though I prepared half of it! I am nothing but a mere house elf at this point.”

There’s greetings and back-patting, general pleasantries and Hermione disciplining Ron for berating house elves, _again, and seriously, Ron, it’s like you don’t know what I do for a living._ Harry relaxes when they finally settle around the table in Ron and Hermione’s spacious, bright living room, in a house they recently bought in a small wizarding community just outside of London. This is where Harry feels the most at home; doesn’t matter whether it’s the small crappy flat the two used to share before Ron quit his Auror position to help George with the joke shop (before it became a joke empire), or an actual family home they are making together; as long as Ron and Hermione are there, Harry's good. Soon after the War, he kept having trouble sleeping so bad he nearly became a zombie; Ron and Hermione took him in then, making life as easy as possible for him until he got back on his feet again. The same thing happened a couple years later after Ginny finally asked for a divorce.

That’s why it feels a little strange having a secret from them and needing to lie to conceal it. A hole in Harry’s great plan presents itself when both Hermione and Ron put copious amounts of food on their plates and Harry, who just ate with Malfoy, is feeling slightly sick at the very thought. He plates a bit of everything, hoping to get away with it, especially since Hermione has already launched into a retelling of one of her work adventures. She stops, however, as soon as she notices Harry’s plate.

“What is _wrong_ with you today, Harry?”

“I’m - I’m feeling a little bit ill, that’s all. Maybe that’s why I overslept. Maybe I have the flu?” Harry looks into his hash browns like they hold the answers to all questions of the universe. Hermione is quiet, but it’s Ron who blows Harry’s cover once and for good.

“I don’t think you do, unless you contracted it from whoever left two - no, sorry, _three_ hickeys on your neck.” Ron’s voice wavers at the end and he conceals a laugh in a huge cup of tea.

“Shit.” Shower be damned, but Harry could have at least looked in a mirror, or ask Malfoy to heal these before he came here. “I’m- yeah, alright. I had breakfast already. I had a date last night. I stayed over. That’s the whole story.”

Ron grins openly now from across the table. Hermione sighs deeply. “For Merlin’s sake, Harry. Just tell us that next time, alright? No need to lie. You’re allowed to have a sex life.”

“Whoa, Hermione,” Harry shakes his head, not quite enjoying the use of those words to describe whatever he’s currently got going on with Malfoy.

“What? There’s literally nothing wrong with it. I always thought wizards should be receiving proper sexual education! I hope I get to work on a bill about that soon, but there’s always something more important to do…”

Meanwhile, Ron has forgotten about his breakfast and is still displaying all his teeth in Harry’s direction. “Who is it? Do we know them? Is it a guy or a girl? A Muggle or a wizard?”

“Ron, stop. That’s something very private - unless Harry wants to tell us? Do you, Harry?” Hermione’s tone is dangerously hopeful as she folds her hands on top of her pregnant belly.

“No. I really don’t. It’s - look, guys.” Harry takes a deep breath. He might as well be as honest with them as possible. Maybe then he’ll stop feeling guilty. “It’s nothing serious, at least I don’t think so, and it’s still very fresh. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Okay, fine,” Ron agrees, “but if you’re still seeing that person in, let’s say, a month from now, you’re legally obligated to tell us everything. Right, Hermione?”

“Well. _Legally_ is not the right word…”

“I don’t care. That’s the deal, alright, Harry?”

“Yes, yes, okay.” Harry lets Ron have this one. Maybe he’ll forget in a month; there’s a lot happening in Ron’s life at the moment. The one who will definitely not forget, though, is Hermione, so when after breakfast Ron disappears in the kitchen to clean the dishes and cut the pie, Harry grabs Hermione by the arm and decides to confess everything.

“It’s Draco Malfoy.” Hermione makes a little shocked sound, covering her mouth with her hand. “It’s Draco Malfoy, Hermione, and I have no idea what’s happening with me. I met him at a Muggle bar, it was supposed to be a one-time thing but then it turns out I need his help to solve a case, so I met him _again_ , at St Mungo’s where he works, and it’s not a one-time thing anymore. It’s a multiple-time thing.”

“Wait. Wait, Harry, just slow down for a second here. _Malfoy?_ This is not a prank, right?”

Harry laughs bitterly. “I wish it was. But he’s - he’s a Healer now, you know, he _helps people_ , and he’s _nice to them_. I-” Harry swallows, knowing he’s about to say the most difficult thing yet. “I actually like him as a person. He’s different.”

Humor slowly replaces the shock in Hermione’s eyes as she places a reassuring hand on top of Harry’s. Ron is singing something out of tune in the kitchen and maybe everything is going to be alright somehow. “I guess you two go together like fire and water, in a way.”

Harry decides to not apply too much weight to Hermione’s words. He eats the pie and jokes with Ron, leaving all the worries for a future version of himself.

*

Draco has noticed Potter leaning against his office door five minutes ago. He’s been looking for Parker since then, not wanting to leave Hopeless Gordon alone with the patients.

“Parker! Where is that girl? Kapoor, Marquez, have you seen her? If I keep Auror Potter waiting any longer he might throw me into Azkaban without a trial. And without me, this ward will sink!” Draco knows he’s being dramatic, but he is very much enjoying this scene, the fear and confusion in the eyes of his trainees making it known that he’s doing a good job.

“I think she just went to the bathroom, sir,” mumbles Kapoor, and, like a damn charm, Parker appears at the end of a corridor.

“Parker, thank Merlin. You’re in charge. Don’t let Gordon touch anything, and only call for me in grave danger, you know the drill. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

The smirk on Potter’s mouth when Draco finally greets him with a proper, professional handshake does not bode well. “You don’t have to do all that, you know.”

“All that meaning what, exactly? Pray tell?”

“Those dramatic displays of power. I get it already, you’re the head of the ward and they all pee their pants at the very sight of you, but you’re only hard on them because you want them to be great Healers and so on,” Potter blabbers as Draco lets him into the office, the door clicking shut behind them.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Draco whispers, crowding Harry against the locked door to properly greet him, none of the hand-shaking crap they did just for show. Potter smells of a Muggle cologne, one of the good ones, his hair soft to the touch, and he’s wearing a leather jacket that squeaks when Draco wraps his fingers around Harry’s bicep. Pure lust makes him bite down on the other man’s lower lip, sending an insane spark jumping between the two of them. Suddenly the world is a blur as Harry half-pushes, half-carries Draco to the cluttered desk a few feet away. Draco crushes against it unceremoniously, sending tons of patient files flying to the floor, his arms twisted around Harry’s neck tightly for better or worse. Their lips connect again, urgent and almost painful and neither of them breathes until Potter moves his face away to kiss his way down Draco’s jaw and neck.

“Fuck, I probably taste of death and disease,” Draco exhales, feeling Harry’s entire body vibrate with muffled laughter.

“You kind of do,” Potter replies, continuing to kiss Draco after all. It makes Draco want to sit on top of the desk and wrap his legs around Potter’s hips, so he does, their crotches pressing together now, leaving no room for doubt.

“Auror Potter. I have to say I am appalled. This is very, very unprofessional of you. We’re both on the clock if I’m correct, you were supposed to be interviewing my patients,” Draco teases, unable to not grind his hips slightly into Harry’s. There’s all kinds of torture in the world, but this must be Draco’s favorite kind. “I should not be the object of your interests.”

“You shouldn’t have been so hot then,” replies Potter in a sentence that probably makes no grammatical sense whatsoever, and then takes a step away after all, making Draco snap back to reality. Potter’s hands are still stroking his neck though. “Ron busted me at breakfast on Saturday, you know.”

“Busted you? What do you mean?”

Potter pulls on his collar, revealing a particularly sexy love bite Draco left there.

“Whoops. Sorry. Should I be more careful next time?” Draco asks, because it’s the right thing to do, but not intent on keeping the promise anyway. “Wait, does Weasley know it was me?”

“Of course not. I can tell him, but I don’t have a death wish, and hope you don’t either.”

“Not particularly, no.” Draco finally decides to jump off the desk, waving his wand to make the papers rearrange themselves. Potter is still standing there, a little awkward, very turned on and stupidly handsome. “Go do your interviews, yeah? How much time do you need? My shift ends in two hours, unless something urgent happens.”

“Two hours should be enough. We can grab something to eat after? I live close to Camden Market.”

“Sounds great. Go now, let me work.” Draco decides to ignore how much what Potter said sounded like a date invitation, and how elated that makes him feel, and he finally sits down to do his paperwork.

*

Harry wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t seen it: Draco Malfoy is eating Camden Town street food without complaining. On the contrary; he’s got a smile on his face and he’s praising the falafel pita Harry chose for him to high heavens.

The sky is dark but clear, and lights are dancing on the surface of Regent’s Canal as they’re finishing up their food. Harry wishes he had a proper camera to take a photo of Malfoy like that - smiling, relaxed, leaning against the railing by the water and looking like a work of art, the wind playing with his hair. He’s only got a Muggle mobile phone with a very shitty camera he’s charmed to take moving, magical pictures; he snaps one before Malfoy even realizes what Harry’s doing.

Harry’s flat is ten minutes away on foot, so they walk, Harry keeping his hands firmly in his pockets, a little tense for no good reason, keeping a respectable distance from Malfoy whenever the sidewalk is wide enough.

“Remember when you used to despise everything that’s Muggle?” Harry asks, attempting for something lighthearted, but missing epically.

“Yes,” Malfoy replies, his voice strained, and runs a hand over his face. “I was - I was raised in isolation. I had the conviction of my own wizarding greatness served for breakfast daily, Potter, how was I supposed to turn out otherwise?”

“I- wow, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- I was just surprised how much you took to it all. You live in a Muggle apartment, you introduce Muggle treatment methods at work and it just seems like - like you’re fine with all of it.”

“I’ve adjusted,” Malfoy replies with a shrug. “At some point - well, _you know_ at which point - I’ve decided not to blindly subscribe to my family values anymore. They’re all outdated and malicious. My life is here and now, so why not take the best of both worlds?”

Harry shuts up, taking it all into consideration for a moment as they keep walking through the autumnal London. Malfoy has built himself up from the very ground. It must have been one hell of an exhausting job.

“I know it took me years to come around. You can fault me for that all you want,” Malfoy finally says, a little defeated, apparently unable to take more than two minutes of silence.

“I’m not gonna fault you for anything,” Harry claims and they drop the subject altogether. Harry should probably beat himself up for ruining the mood, if there was anything to ruin to begin with, but they’re already entering his apartment building. A thought dawns on Harry, a second too late as always, that perhaps he should have cleaned up before inviting anyone over; anyone, but especially Draco Malfoy, whose own apartment is nearly OCD-perfect.

A wave of shame hits him when Malfoy stops at the threshold and takes Harry’s humble abode in with a huge frown forming on his forehead. “So. Uhm. Sorry, I didn’t have time to clean up.”

“No, Potter, it’s not the lack of cleanliness that’s the problem,” Malfoy says dramatically, walking through the room that’s both Harry’s bedroom and the living room and approaching the window that overviews the street beneath. “It’s just so _small_ . Damn, Potter, do you need a _loan_? How badly does the Auror Department pay you? I thought yours was a prestigious position! Prestigious means well-paid!”

Malfoy sits down on the edge of Harry’s bed, probably about to have a nervous breakdown. The entire situation is so absurd Harry wants to laugh. Draco Malfoy is in his flat, concerned for the quality of Harry’s living quarters, they just ate Muggle street food and soon Harry is going to get two beers out of the fridge. If he could only tell that to sixteen-year-old Harry…

“I had to move out when Ginny and I broke up,” Harry starts, not sure if he should tell Malfoy the story, not sure if Malfoy is even interested, but the other man turns to him and listens avidly. “I could afford something better. Well, maybe not much better, but still. I can. I just - never cared enough? It’s just me. I don’t need anything bigger or fancier or whatever. I don’t spend a lot of time here anyway.”

Malfoy crosses his legs, his studious elegance a little out of place in the surroundings. “What happened between the two of you?”

The cold grey of Malfoy’s eyes pierces Harry like an icicle. He hates thinking about the whole Ginny mess. He might have been young and naive when they got together, but he really believed that all solid relationships are built on love, mutual respect and hard work, and since he was more than ready to contribute all of the above, they were going to sail into forever. He had no doubt in her and no doubt in himself either. “Nothing happened,” he finally says, which is the truth. “We just didn’t fit. I think we got married before making sure we would even be able to live together. Turned out we weren’t. Eventually, there was more bitterness between us than love. I-” Harry stops. This is too much. He doesn’t even _know_ Malfoy all that well.

“What? You got so far, you might as well tell me the whole thing. It’s not like I’m going to pass it on, or, I don’t know, use it against you.”

Harry takes a deep breath that settles down his entire body a little, and looks down at his own hands. _I MUST NOT TELL LIES_ , the old scars tell him just as they do every day, even when he tries to forget. “I started drinking too much. It got a little out of control, and she couldn’t take it. I wouldn’t stop, I wouldn’t ask for help. For a good six or seven months there wasn’t a night when I was sober. It’s just that- things were getting to me. I couldn’t handle the pressure. I wanted to be a perfect husband, but I had no idea how. Work wasn’t going as well as I wanted it to either, I felt - I felt like I was drowning. You can only kill Voldemort once, and, turns out, figuring out what to do after that is the hardest part.”

It’s so quiet Harry can hear his own watch ticking. Telling someone doesn’t feel as good and therapeutic as Hermione promised him it would; it feels more like he wants to throw up. It doesn’t last though because Malfoy’s hand lands on his, tapping lightly.

“You have a balcony, right? Let’s go out there.”

Maybe it’s better this way. It definitely feels easier than listening to whatever Malfoy might have to say right now. Harry leads him to the small balcony, which hosts Harry’s collection of houseplants in cascading pots and a string of charmed fairy lights that are always lit up. Most of the lights in other buildings are turned off and Harry realizes it is very late. Malfoy is gently touching one of the plants like he wants to check if it’s real.

“These look nice. And quite alive, too.”

“Neville tends to them when he visits every two weeks or so. I assure you they wouldn’t be looking this good if I was fully responsible for watering them.”

Malfoy is most likely not listening anymore as he pulls Harry into his arms, kissing his forehead first, then both of his cheeks, then finally moving onto his lips. He’s taking it slow, teasing, pulling on Harry’s lower lip with his teeth, moving away for a second to just _look_ before kissing again.

“Is this a pity kiss?” Harry asks, still hung up on the Ginny confession, still feeling bad that he couldn’t hold things together, still convinced he needs to always do one hundred percent and then twice as much.

Maybe Draco Malfoy is the only person who does not expect anything extraordinary from him.

“No. This is an _I like the way your face looks in this lighting_ kiss. Is that better?”

“Much better.” Maybe one day Harry lets all of that go. Maybe one day. Now, it’s enough to lose himself in the unexpected, wrap his arms around Malfoy’s neck and don’t think about much of anything anymore.

It works for thirty seconds, until someone on the street closes their car door loudly, and Harry instinctively moves away.

“What now?” Malfoy is not pleased, one of his hands still firmly on the nape of Harry’s neck, not letting him go too far.

“What if somebody sees us?”

“So? Do you have nosey neighbours? Are they _homophobic_?” Malfoy asks, his expression veering on angry.

“Homophobic? Draco, I live in Camden Town.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Malfoy laughs, leaning his forehead on Harry’s. “But I have a wand and I can do magic, so if there’s a need to hex someone, I won’t hesitate.”

“I don’t doubt that. Can we go back inside though?”

They do. Draco doesn’t even complain that Harry’s bed is not big enough.

In the morning, Harry wakes up alone, with a note floating over his bedside table.  


_Some of us unfortunate mortals have to work the morning shift, you know._

_I’ve decided against waking you - enjoy your beauty sleep._

_Take care,_

DM  


_PS. Change your mattress. This one, as you would say, “sucks”._

*

It lasts for weeks.

They see each other on evenings, afternoons and mornings, stealing time that they never had to begin with. Draco becomes intimately familiar with Potter’s very bad mattress that he offers to help set on fire every time he spends the night. And he spends the night plenty; it’s probably easier to count the nights they spend apart. It takes them two weeks of seeing each other to finally wake up together properly. It’s a very pale Sunday morning when Draco’s eyes snap open after an uneasy sleep, there’s a cold draught from the window and he realizes he’s in Harry’s bed, with his arm wrapped around Harry’s naked torso and their fingers intertwined. Afraid of the implications, he tries to make a run for it, but Harry, half-awake and messy-haired, holds his hand down.

“Stay,” he mutters in a husky voice, so Draco does, because he has nowhere else to be, nothing else to do except lazily make out with Harry Potter in his uncomfortable bed at 6AM on a Sunday morning.

It’s only the first of many mornings like this.

Harry solves the beheadings case, capturing a dangerous maniac with ties to a Bulgarian dark magic den. It’s a huge accomplishment and he’s going to be promoted to Head Auror as soon as his boss retires next year. Harry won’t even be 27 years old by then. Ron Weasley keeps asking questions about Harry’s mysterious lover and Draco knows their secret won’t be a secret for much longer.

He finds himself not caring. Harry can work this out, just like he eventually figured out the location of all the utensils in Draco’s kitchen.

One of those mornings Harry is called into work urgently, leaving Draco in the Camden Town apartment by himself. Draco tries to sleep for as long as possible, missing the presence of a warm body at an arm’s reach, hoping against hope that maybe Harry will come back quickly and they can go back to sleep together. Harry doesn’t return though, and the shrill sound of the doorbell wakes Draco up for good.

A week or two ago, a Muggle delivery person brought Harry some kind of package. Draco figures it’s the same thing this time, so he checks if he’s wearing underwear ( _yes_ ), pats down his hair ( _acceptable_ ) and climbs out of bed to open the door to whom he assumes is just another delivery guy.

It’s not.

Ginny Weasley, dressed in denim overalls, a giant colorful scarf and a long fluffy cardigan instead of a coat, does a double take upon seeing Draco. “Excuse me?” she says, taken aback, in a small and whiny voice so unlike her.

Draco laughs internally and swallows through the bitterness. There it goes. They had a nice run. Now they’re irrevocably, utterly busted, and Draco is not even wearing a shirt for that. “Good morning, Weasley.”

She takes a step forward, then a step back, her long, fiery red hair spilling from underneath a black woolen beanie. Watching her indecisiveness is a little exhausting.

“Would you mind stepping inside? It’s cold in the hallway and I’m, as you have probably noticed, not dressed.”

Ginny steps inside the apartment and allows Draco to close the door, but she keeps her hand firmly on the handle like she’s got an escape plan at the ready. She’s not saying anything, just staring at Draco in nothing but his underwear, the messy bed behind him, Harry’s clothes from yesterday strewn all over the floor. Draco doesn’t want her to have the wrong idea, like that maybe Harry is just renting the apartment to him, or putting him up while he himself stays at Ron and Hermione’s. “Harry’s not here. He was called into work. Something urgent.”

He feels smug satisfaction getting to say that. _He’s_ the one who gets to spend the nights with the Gryffindor golden boy now. He’s the one who gets to wake up next to him, kiss him goodnight, touch his body and laugh at his bad jokes. _He_ gets everything she gave up on, and he’s going to brag about it, because young Weasley probably still thinks he’s worth less than the dirt on her shoe.

Ginny, on the other hand, looks like she wants to be anywhere but here. “Right. I just - I was cleaning out my wardrobe and found some of Harry’s stuff. I figured he’d like to have these.” She takes a sports bag off her shoulder and drops it to the floor with a soft thud.

“Thanks.”

Another minute of tense silence passes as Ginny scans the tiny apartment, a frown between her eyebrows, lips twisted in discomfort. “So you’re… friends with Harry now.” She phrases it like an assumption, not a question, making Draco chuckle.

“Friends.” That’s a very nice word. Makes it seem like the most entertaining thing Harry and Draco do in bed is play Exploding Snap. “I guess you can call it that, if it makes you feel any better.”

Ginny scoffs. Looks like her good will and patience are finally running thin. _She lasted long anyway, gotta give her that._ In a second, she’s got one of her hands painfully squeezing Draco’s arm. “This is bullshit, Malfoy,” she spits out, tightening her hold even further. “How… how the fuck am I supposed to believe that Harry chose _you_ , out of all people, to be with? How would that even happen?! Maybe - maybe you’re just breaking in? Maybe you’re here to steal something?”

“What would I be stealing, Weasley? The fucking broken toaster? That disgraceful bathroom rug that must be at least fifteen years old? Let go of me.”

Ginny is not listening, pulling her wand out from one of her pockets. “Harry!” she yells into the empty apartment. “Harry, are you here? _Homenum Revelio!_ ”

Nothing. Draco feels her spell in the tips of his hair. He endures Ginny’s grip for a while longer, until he can see tears shining in her eyes and she lets go. Her gaze lingers on the scar tissue where Draco’s Dark Mark used to be.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, not looking up into Draco’s eyes, running out and slamming the door behind herself.

To Draco it feels like he’s just been in a house fire and came out unscathed, even though everybody else died. He can’t force himself to care. He opens the bag Ginny left and the thing at the top is a very old Gryffindor scarf. Draco wraps it around his neck and goes back to bed.

The scarf smells like Harry. There’s the scents Draco knows and recognizes, like Harry’s Muggle cologne, his shampoo and the jacket he wears on rainy days. But there’s also scents he can’t identify, scents of Harry’s past that Draco was not a part of; memories of that person he never got to know. Ron and Hermione got to know that person. Ginny Weasley knew and loved that person; she even carried his surname for years. The thought gives Draco an unpleasant shiver. He remembers the way Ginny said, _you, out of all people,_ and realizes she has a point.

Dwelling on that thought, he falls back asleep at some point, and wakes up to Harry’s warm hands on his body.

“Where’d you get that?” Harry asks, pulling on the Gryffindor scarf with one hand and caressing Draco’s ribs with the other. “You look sexy in it.”

“Ginny brought it,” Draco says through a yawn, stretching his arms and legs, finally having slept enough, and reaching for Harry above the covers.

Harry, however, freezes, eyes widening in shock. “Wait, what?”

*

Ron knows.

“Mate. Hermione is my wife, do you think we have any secrets from each other?” He laughs, sipping on his very sugary coffee concoction through a straw. “It’s not like she broke immediately, though. She made me wait a whole month until, you know, you were supposed to come clear.”

The painful knot in Harry’s stomach loosens up a little. He sips on his own drink, less diabetes-inducing than Ron’s, and allows himself to crack a smile. It’s a sunny day at Diagon Alley and the first snow has just fallen. It feels nice to be watching it through Fortescue’s window. “I’m sorry, man. I just - I felt so weird about it. I still do. I didn’t know _what_ to tell you.”

“Ginny had a lot to say, though, when she barged in on us last night.”

“Oh God, I don’t think I even want to know.”

Ron giggles, apparently amused by Harry’s misery. “A lot of - hmm, _words_ \- were used. I’m not going to repeat any because we are in an ice cream parlor and there are children here. But after she was done yelling, she just kind of sat down and swayed back and forth repeating Malfoy’s name. It was not a pretty sight.”

“Draco said she didn’t like the idea of him and me together. He said she used physical force.”

“Ouch. I wouldn’t put it past her though, in the state she was in. You know how she gets.”

Harry does; he knows it almost too well. She would get angry, he would get defensive. She would scream, he would lock himself in a room or leave the house and don’t come back until the next day. “Yeah. Don’t worry though, Draco is a drama queen. She probably, like, touched his arm or something.”

The relief of being able to finally talk to Ron without trying to conceal a secret is overwhelming. This is Harry’s best friend in the whole wide world, and if he disapproved of whatever Harry is doing with Malfoy, the disappointment would be too sour to swallow through. Thankfully, there’s no need to worry about that anymore. If their friendship survived Harry's divorce from Ron's little sister, there probably aren't many things in the world that could ever break it.

Ron’s laugh makes Harry laugh too, so much he has to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater.

“Damn, Harry. What’s it like? You know, with Malfoy?”

Well, what _is it_ like? It’s exhausting. It’s annoying. It’s like Harry can’t fit into his own skin anymore. It’s having no idea what’s going to happen the very next second. It’s probably the happiest Harry’s been in forever. “It’s… interesting. Challenging, sometimes. But it’s great. We fit.”

Ron’s beaming in a way only he can. “Is he a good lay?”

“Oh fuck off.” Harry playfully punches him in the arm, Ron still grinning, since Harry most likely answered his question without meaning to.

*

“You should go home, Potter,” Draco says at some point when it’s too dark to still be Wednesday, not bright enough to be Thursday yet. They are hung in limbo, a liminal space where a lot can happen, but nothing will ever matter. Not the golden brown shade of Harry’s skin and how it tastes of sunlight and sweat and hard work; not the abdominal muscles he definitely didn’t have at school years ago; not all the quiet, intimate words landing in Draco’s ear in whispers when they’re wrapped around each other.

It will all be gone in the morning, because whatever happens in limbo, stays in limbo. It’s real and fake at the same time and Draco can’t exactly be faulted for really wanting to cry right now.

It’s like Harry doesn’t even hear him. He’s resting against Draco’s pillows, naked and comfortable, like he doesn’t have a care in the world and like he can’t see that Draco is about to set everything on fire.

As he does.

“What are you talking about?” Harry asks, his tone tinted with joy, but growing slightly suspicious. There’s empty pizza boxes on the floor and Draco’s not even sure what’s wrong, but it’s been cooking in him ever since Ginny’s surprise visit, eating him up from the inside.

They’re not real. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy together, what an absurd concept. They should have just stuck to sex, none of the breakfasts together bullshit, none of the park walks and wine drinking and stupidly gentle mornings, no first name basis either. All of this is empty if Draco doesn’t get to hold Harry’s hand through all of it, and be his equal, valued partner. And he never will, because however hard he tries, at the end of the day he’s still Draco Malfoy.

Draco sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from Harry, wrapping a blanket around his arms. He’s not comfortable being naked anymore. He feels Harry’s hand on his shoulder seconds later, but shakes it off. “Ginny was disgusted to see me that day, you know. She was absolutely horrified to even think about the two of us together. _Horrified_.”

“I-” Harry stops, placing his hand firmly on Draco’s shoulder again. “I’m sorry for how she reacted. I’m not responsible for it, but I’m sorry she hurt you.”

“No, she was right.” Draco’s hoping his voice won’t break. He doesn’t know where he’s going with this, no idea what he wants to achieve, but he needs to be done with this pain and he needs to be done with it quickly. “I mean, can’t you see it? Who am I to you?”

Draco can’t help but turn his face towards Harry, whose eyes are screaming confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Who am I, Harry? Because I’m obviously not your boyfriend, not your partner, not your significant other in any way that actually matters, am I? I am a shameful secret, that’s who I am.”

“Seriously? You’re wrong, fuck, you’re so, so wrong,” Harry replies, attempting a reassuring smile, but it’s too late, Draco can feel the hot tears spilling from his own eyes and down his cheeks. Amazing. He’s crying in front of Harry fucking Potter in the very middle of some absurd emotional confession. It reminds him why he’s not a fan of relationships; he fares much better with his books and potions and an occasional hookup, without all these disgusting feelings. Harry is reaching for his hand, making the blanket slowly slide off Draco’s arm. “I was sure my behavior was enough proof of how much I care about you. Because I do. I care a whole lot. I didn’t think it was something we needed to discuss, or put a label on, but if that’s what you want, you should have just told me, alright? No need to be so dramatic about it. And I’m not ashamed of you. I never was. Not for one second. Hell, I even told-”

“You told Ron, I know. Congratulations!” Draco is screaming at this point, tears making his shoulders shake, his heart thudding in absolute panic. “Let me break the Firewhiskey out, this calls for-”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Harry cuts in, not buying Draco’s hysterics any longer, letting go of his hand to ruffle his own hair in frustration.

“No, you shut the fuck up, Potter, I’m trying to tell you that I love you!”

Silence. Harry’s hands drop down his sides, idly resting against the mattress as he’s staring at Draco, whose blanket has fully slid down to the floor, leaving him naked again. More silence. Harry’s jaw has dropped. Draco wants to say _I’m sorry I fucked up_ , but he can’t, his breath taken away by Harry’s chest colliding with his, arms enveloping him to pull him to bed.

It’s not clear to Draco what happens after. Maybe his heart actually gives up and gives out, because only bits and pieces of reality stay with him. He remembers the biting, angry kisses they exchange, remembers Harry pulling on his hair and sucking in the skin right underneath his ear, remembers dragging his fingernails down Harry’s back in part because he needs to, and in part because he _wants to_. He remembers the tip of Harry’s cock hitting the back of his throat and how he doesn’t stop to breathe for minutes and minutes and minutes until he starts crying again. In the end, he remembers Harry kissing the tears away from his cheeks as he pushes into him, and then the world turns to black, leaving him wrecked and outwardly sobbing, unable to even see the ceiling lights for how wet his eyes are.

“I love you too, you absolute idiot,” Harry says after a lifetime of not speaking, wrapping him in a blanket, touching his hair and dropping a kiss to his forehead, quiet and gentle now. “Of course I do.”

“Maybe that’s not enough,” Draco replies, wishing he could say something different and make this right somehow, but there’s nothing else to say. His heart soars and throws itself off a cliff almost simultaneously; he’s never felt anything like this before and he hopes he never will again. “Maybe you should still go home.”

“Right,” counters Harry, suddenly cold and distant, reaching for his wand and waving it in a hurry. It’s all over. Draco passively watches as all of Harry’s clothes fly back to him; he puts them on without saying as much as another word to Draco.

Only after he’s fully dressed and ready to go he stands in front of the bed, back straight, hands in his pockets. “You know what? Maybe you’re still the same bastard you were in Hogwarts after all. Maybe I’d be better off not feeling what I feel for you, but fuck me, right?”

With these words, he Disapparates, leaving Draco surrounded by empty pizza boxes and his own despair.

*

The air outside is cold, biting, the wind blowing snow right into Harry’s face. Maybe that’s for the best; nobody needs to see the angry tears Harry doesn’t even bother wiping.

And he’s angry, so so angry. Pissed, even. He knows he won’t be tomorrow; tomorrow he’ll just be missing Draco and wondering where it all went wrong, planning grand gestures that would fix everything.

Right now, he just needs time, and to get rid of all that awful energy, so he starts running.

_Draco Malfoy loves me._

*

Draco is in the middle of his evening rounds when Parker interrupts him, politely calling his name from the door of one of the patient rooms.

“Healer Malfoy? You are needed in the emergency room, urgently.”

Something in the way Parker is looking at him makes Draco’s stomach turn. Something is wrong. Very, very wrong. “Very well,” he replies, as calmly as he can manage with his heart trying to leap out through his throat. “Take over, Parker, will you? Mr. Lewis here needs one dose of Dreamless Sleep.”

“No problem, sir. You really should go, though.”

“I am. See? Going. Gone now.”

The second he’s out of Parker’s sight, he starts running.

The emergency room is full of people, as it always is, but somehow the chaos seems to be even more chaotic than usual. Draco moves between people with Seeker’s efficiency, frantically trying to locate the reason why he was called down here.

“Healer Malfoy! Over here!” A young Mediwizard waves him over and Draco approaches quickly. First thing he sees is a thin, scrawny man curled up in a chair by the wall, hugging his own knees and crying loudly. The Mediwizard is holding someone else up by the shoulders in a sitting position and Draco is so scared to look who, because he knows all too well who the weeping man in the chair is. It’s McLaughlin, a junior Auror Harry’s been training lately.

 _Okay, deep breath. Maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe it’s just a funny looking broken leg, you can fix him up like nothing._ The self-motivation attempt does nothing to soothe Draco’s fear, but he finally _looks_.

There’s so much blood.

It’s pouring out of Harry’s eyes, ears, nose and mouth. There is also a gaping hole in his stomach, the blood having soaked all the way through his open white shirt.

“He got hit with some nasty spell,” the Mediwizard whose name Draco doesn’t recall states methodically. “Dark magic. I can’t stop the bleeding.”

“It’s all my fault!” cries McLaughlin from his chair of misery. “I’m good for nothing! You should have fired me weeks ago, Harry!”

“Shut up, Brian, this is not really helping me,” says Harry, some more blood pouring out of his mouth and creating a little puddle on the floor.

Draco finally unfreezes, adrenaline kicking in and winning over paralyzing fear, and grabs for his wand. “Bring me a stretcher,” he says to the Mediwizard, and then pointing to McLaughlin, “and take this one out of here immediately. Get him some Draught of Peace.” The Mediwizard nods, starting to speak calmly to McLaughlin, but Draco doesn’t hear it anymore, all of his attention and abilities focused on Harry.

“Draco, hi,” Harry mumbles, clearly out of it, gripping for Draco’s hand.

“Stop talking, you’re going to bleed out, dimwit.”

Waiting for the stretcher, Draco silently casts spells to fix the primary source of blood loss - the hole in Harry’s stomach. As soon as this is looking slightly better, he tries to block the bleeding from the face, knowing he will need a powerful potion to fully counter the effect of the hex. The Mediwizard brings the stretcher around soon enough, helping Draco place Harry on it gently, on the side so he doesn’t choke on his own blood. They quickly move Harry out of the emergency room into a more private, less chaotic space where Draco can finally focus.

The Mediwizard (Draco really, really needs to learn his name) is waiting for more orders. “Get me Kapoor from Spell Damage, I need her to start on a potion immediately. I’m gonna stay here, the blood-blocking spells need re-casting every half an hour or so.”

The boy is gone, leaving Draco with half-conscious Harry who's still staining the sheets in red. _This is my patient,_ Draco is telling himself. _Just another patient, not the person who I care about most in the world. Just a patient, and I need to stay calm._

“Draco.”

“Yes. I'm here. And I already told you to stop speaking, you're bleeding.”

“I don't care,” Harry says, quietly like that won't provoke another fountain of blood, even though his eyes are currently crying red. “People bleed all the time, every day, you should know that better than anyone else. And one only declares their undying love to Draco Malfoy once.”

“I think you already did that.”

“I did, but it sucked. So I- I need to tell you how sorry I am for that day. Because I've been sorry ever since I left your flat. I didn't mean to call you a bastard. Or maybe I did, but it doesn't matter. Come here.”

“I'm here, Harry,” Draco replies, even though he’s way further from Harry than he'd like to be.

“You are? I can't see anything. The blood, you know.”

Oh, fuck everything. Draco pulls up a chair from the corner of the room, but then it still doesn't feel close enough, so he sits on the edge of Harry's bed, softly placing his hands on the other man's arms. The wound in Harry's stomach looks good enough and hopefully won’t open again, but Draco is still on the very verge of panic. Maybe he should call for someone. Maybe an older Healer, someone more experienced, maybe just one of his trainees for additional help. But he'd probably rather die a painful death than let anyone else touch Harry. “I'm sorry, too. I was selfish and dramatic, which, I guess, is how I always am, but that was unnecessary. I don't want to lose you. This was-” Draco tries to find words to describe the week he just spent without Harry, the not sleeping, not eating, functioning like a wind-up doll just because he needed to go to work, but he's coming up empty. “I don't want to lose you. I don't need any declarations. I just want to be with you. But right now, I'd like to focus on keeping you alive.” Usually, Draco doesn’t bother trying to comfort emergency patients, but this is different. He’s breaking all of his own protocols anyway.

“You-” Harry starts, but then immediately breaks into a coughing fit that sends fountains of blood onto the floor, the sheets, Draco’s scrubs and basically everywhere that was blood-free this far. It’s like a cold icicle of panic stabbing Draco straight in the brain. He can’t let Harry die; can't let this situation get any worse than in already is. Methodically, but with trembling hands, he repeats all the blood-blocking spells, watching the liquid cease flow and leave Harry’s face clearer.

Kapoor comes in then, a little terrified of the gory scene in front of her, but she is the best Potioneer Draco’s got. Not daring to look away from Harry for a second, he gives her instructions, then makes sure she remembers everything before letting her go. The brewing should take her up to one hour.

“I want to be with you,” Harry murmurs, barely audible. He must be so tired and in so, so much pain. How did that even happen? How does Draco kill McLaughlin without landing himself in Azkaban? “You deserve so much more though. And I'm not ashamed of you. So from now on, I'm gonna take you to all work functions, even if you hate it. And to dinners with the Weasleys. Because that's what you do with your partner, right?”

“For Merlin's sake, Harry, stop talking or I’m gonna petrify you.”

“Okay. I love you.” Harry grabs for Draco’s hand again, smearing blood on Draco’s skin and grinning, which makes him look clinically insane. Maybe he is. Draco is still so in love with him. The spells seem to be holding on again; they just bought some time.

“I love you too.”

“And, Draco?”

“Yes? What is it?”

“I think I’m swallowing my own blood.”

*

Harry’s happy. He’s pretty sure he’s under the influence of a very powerful potion, but he’s also hysterically happy.

Draco is in the chair an arm’s reach from his bed, wand at the ready, carefully monitoring Harry’s vitals and making sure he doesn’t die. Harry’s not going to die; he’s got too much to live for now.

“Will you move in with me?” he asks, voice sore from all the blood he swallowed earlier, sounding all wrong and too loud in the semi-dark patient room.

Draco shuffles his feet, the light coming from the corridor gleaming in his cold grey eyes. “Certainly not. Obviously you're gonna move in with me. I’ll have you know still hate your mattress.”

“I guess we can fight about it some other time,” Harry replies, holding onto Draco’s hand, interlacing their fingers.

“As soon as you’re out of here.” Draco’s words sound like a promise, the last thing he hears before he finally slips out of consciousness into a dreamless, potion-induced sleep.


	2. The Boxer (Dazed in the final count)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A relationship is a little like a package deal from hell, because you don't get to choose your significant other's family. You have to learn how to deal with them, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Christie, for making me believe I can write plot, smut, family drama and all the things other than vague angst.  
>    
> [Enjoy the playlist here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6PFPhtZMS1o5SqWik5z9ny)
> 
> tw for mental breakdowns

_Boy, we gave you every opportunity_

_Boy we gave our hands to get you off your knees_

_Boy sat at our table and ate everything_

_You say that you're still hungry, then bite the plates and break your teeth_

(Brand New, _Same Logic/Teeth_ )

*

Narcissa is wearing satin gloves to dinner, and she’s adequately cold.

A small army of Malfoy Manor’s house elves brings one plate after another to the table, grabbing unfinished dishes from right in front of Harry who does not feel much like eating anyway. Draco and Narcissa seem unphased, although Harry knows Draco hates everything about what’s happening right now.

They make it to dessert (lemon curd tart) without saying anything other than an occasional comment on the food. As soon as the elves grab the empty plates and refill the wine glasses, they skedaddle to the kitchen quick like the wind. Harry could cut the silent, tense atmosphere with a knife. Narcissa looks at him then, really _looks_ , and it curdles his blood.

“What line of work are you in these days, Mr. Potter?”

Narcissa knows. She must know, she’s only trying to get a rise out of him. It’s fine; Harry is prepared. After all Draco didn’t make any promises as to his mother’s behavior. On contrary; he told Harry to “prepare for the worst and just hope it ends quickly.”

“I’m an Auror, Mrs. Malfoy. That hasn’t changed since I left school.” _I’ll be Head Auror by September_ , Harry wants to say, but Narcissa probably knows that too, so he stabs his lemon curd with a fork instead. Narcissa’s known it for a while; if not from The Prophet, then from Draco, because Draco has told her they’re dating a good three months ago, during Christmas. (“Not my best idea,” he admitted later. “We communicated through cold stares and deep sighs for the next two days.”) The woman’s got ulterior motives in every little thing she does; every gesture, every word is a performance in its own right.

“Oh. Law enforcement. Fair enough.” It doesn’t escape Harry that she uses exactly the same expression as Draco often does to refer to his job. Wine, where’s the wine? He definitely needs more wine. “Your wife, then. What does she do?”

Harry is busy trying not to send Narcissa a death glare, but he still manages to notice how Draco shakes his head in a tiniest way and how his hand stills on the fork he’s holding. _Breathe. You made it to dessert._ “My _ex_ wife, Mrs. Malfoy. Last time I checked, she was a Quidditch player. Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies.”

Narcissa smiles coolly, seemingly not put off by Harry’s feisty tone, and doesn’t comment further, turning to Draco to inquire about something or other. Harry can’t hear; the blood and wine are buzzing in his ears. He feels eleven again, full of magic without knowing how to release it, about to tragically overflow with it. He’s forcing more lemon curd tart into his mouth, hoping not to throw up, swallowing gigantic bites.

It gets worse about five minutes later when Draco’s chair squeaks on the wooden floorboards and the other man stands up, excusing himself to the restroom, leaving Harry staring into the eyes of the beast by himself.

Okay, maybe “beast” is a little much. This is just his boyfriend’s mother.

He has a fleeting thought about his ex mother-in-law, Mrs. Weasley, and swallows a bitter smile. He loves that woman dearly and she still thinks of Harry as her son. She always has. Narcissa will never be that person; even the affection she gives Draco, her own flesh and blood, is lukewarm and measured at best.

Harry empties his plate and dries out the rest of his wine, realizing it hasn’t even been fifteen seconds since Draco left and he doesn’t have a worldly idea what to do next. Narcissa does, though. She leaves her chair, walks along the side of the too large dining table, and sits down next to Harry, close but not too close, arms folded in front of her.

“I will never trust you,” she says, voice even and calm, gaze fixed on Harry and unwavering. Draco’s always claimed the Malfoys are a family of cowards, but this, right now, reminds Harry that Narcissa was born a Black, and cowardice is the last thing you can accuse a Black of. “I don’t know what you’re after this time - fame, attention, maybe money - I know working for the Ministry never pays enough - and Draco is currently bent to do anything and everything I would never approve of. He is still my son though, so don’t you dare hurt him. Don’t you dare.” A small smile plays in the corner of Narcissa’s lips and Harry doubts if eating the entire dinner was a good idea. Hopefully Draco can help find an antidote in case the food’s been poisoned. “I know you've never wished this family well. So tread lightly, Potter.”

The chair squeaks against the floor as Narcissa gets up and returns to her initial seat, perfect silence like nothing ever happened.

She doesn’t shake his hand when they say their goodbyes minutes later. She gives Draco’s shoulders a brief squeeze, telling him to take care, and directs just the briefest nod towards Harry.

He finally breathes when they Floo back to Draco’s apartment - well, _their_ apartment now. Harry’s small Camden Town place is just a memory. “You’ve left me alone with her!” he exhales, accusatory, as Draco flicks bits of ash off the shoulders of his black turtleneck.

“Well, I really needed to pee. What did I miss?”

“Nothing much except your mother is convinced I’m with you just so that the press writes about me again. Oh, and also for your money.”

Draco chuckles, moving to flick ash off of Harry’s hair now. “I’m sure the riches of my family have tempted even better men than you.”

“She also promised to murder me if I cause you any harm. It was a profoundly terrifying experience.”

“You haven’t been murdered though,” Draco says, regarding him with a focused expression, pressing his fingers against Harry’s wrist as if to check his pulse, “nor mutilated in any significant way. You’re perfectly fine, Healer’s word.”

“The mental scars aren’t visible to the eye,” Harry mumbles, fishing for sympathy. Draco finally takes pity on him, pulling him in for a kiss, sinking his fingers into Harry’s hair. Harry’s earned this; he survived an afternoon with Narcissa Malfoy, didn’t say anything inappropriate, didn’t do anything rash or stupid (“Just please don’t be… a Gryffindor,” Draco asked him, gesticulating vaguely, while they were getting ready). He was put-together, unenthusiastic and polite even in the face of threats, so it feels correct that he gets to enjoy Draco biting down on his lip and their chests pressing close. This is the only reward Harry needs.

“I don’t think meeting my mother is the worst you’ve been through, Golden Boy,” Draco jokes, pressing his forehead against Harry’s, playing with the buttons of Harry’s shirt. It’s so natural now, so normal to see Draco open and affectionate, but it still manages to make Harry's heart skip a beat once in a while.

“It’s up there somewhere,” he mutters, comfortably settled between Draco's body and the wall by the fireplace. “I'm just glad I don't have to do it again for a while. Your turn now.”

Draco moans then, stepping away from Harry and into the living room to throw himself on the couch dramatically. “Bloody Merlin. It's next week, isn't it? The day of my doom. Please spare me, there's still time.”

Draco has been dreading his first dinner at the Burrow even more than Harry's been dreading their afternoon with Narcissa Malfoy. They’ve already hung out plenty with Ron and Hermione and Draco took it in stride; he's been getting along with Hermione quite well, the two of them secretly communicating on a level of “look at these idiots we’ve decided to share our lives with”. Ron, as Draco claimed, has “evolved a lot” since Hogwarts in a way that made him tolerable to Draco. They would probably never be best friends, but Harry never hoped for that. It was enough to be able to spend a calm evening drinking wine and playing wizarding chess with two of his best friends in the world and the man he was in love with. Well, even if there was considerably less evenings like that since Hermione gave birth to Rose.

“Harry. You love me, right?” Draco whines from the couch where Harry joins him, having to rearrange Draco’s limbs first so he has room to sit down.

“I do, even though you’re a little shit most of the time.”

“Let’s cancel, then,” Draco uses the opportunity to throw his legs across Harry’s lap and cuddle close so that he can start slowly, sensually unbuttoning Harry’s shirt, dropping kisses down Harry’s neck and then lower and lower. “Cancel and just do this for the whole evening instead. I’ll even let you…” Draco moves closer to whisper into Harry’s ear. The air is hot, the words are even hotter and Harry’s arm wraps tightly around his boyfriend’s waist. Draco’s good at this; he’s dangerously proficient in using sex as a weapon and sometimes Harry tries to convince himself he hates it. Not right now though; right now he’s caught in the moment, latching onto Draco’s lips with his, the other man fully in his lap now, fingers in Harry’s hair just as he likes it the most.

Harry lets it happen, unbothered by the passing time, unbothered by Draco’s ulterior motives because he’s pretty sure they’re currently not Draco’s priority either. They make out for a couple of minutes until Harry pulls away, delighted by the flush of red on his boyfriend cheeks. “We’re not canceling. There’s seven nights and days when we can have sex until then. And it’s not like I’m trying to take you, I don’t know, dragon-riding. Come on. Although you’d probably rather go dragon-riding.”

“You know me so well.” Draco stands up, folding his arms across his chest. “I am, however, canceling the excellent rim job I was going to give you for doing so well at the Manor.”

Desire flares up inside of Harry. “No you’re not.” No matter how much Draco likes to use sex as a tool, he also, to put things simply, really likes having it. So yeah, no denial’s happening tonight.

“Well, come and find out then.” Draco sighs, exasperated, shakes his head and retreats to the bedroom.

Harry follows.

*

They both try to make it work as well as they can.

Draco would say they’re doing a pretty good job so far. Four months into the relationship and some pretty solid progress has been made: they still haven’t killed each other, they’ve learned to coexist with each other’s friends for the most part, and they’ve learned how to fight without hating each other, or themselves, afterwards. Draco might bitch and moan about being reluctant to meet all the Weasleys as Harry Potter’s Official Significant Other, but the truth is, it means nothing compared to the ability of being able to wake up daily next to someone smart, sexy, funny and _good_ to the very bone, who coincidentally is also a savior of the entire wizarding world.

Maybe one day Draco will wake up and realize it was all just a fever dream, but today is not this day. Today, when he opens his eyes just minutes after 6AM, his nose is pressed against firm muscle of Harry's upper arm. He stays like this for a while, breathing in, gently kissing the golden brown skin until Harry flinches, stretches and throws a leg over Draco's, effectively trapping him in bed forever. That's it. No getting up this morning, no work, no saving lives, just eternal bedtime with this godlike creature.

“Morning already?” Harry asks sleepily, absentmindedly pulling Draco closer, pressing lips against his forehead.

“My morning, not yours. You have one more hour. And I hate you so, so much for that. Just so you know.”

Harry mutters a small sound of contentment, not moving an inch when Draco tries to free himself from his boyfriend’s heavy limbs. “Come on, Potter. I don’t wanna _Levicorpus_ you first thing in the morning.”

Rain greets Draco upon leaving the apartment. It beats steadily against rooftops, windowsills and sidewalks, puddles deep enough Draco thinks it’s a miracle ducks aren’t settling down in them yet. It’s not regular London ugly weather, it’s something gloomy and slimy and icy cold that makes home within your soul while you try to walk to a cornerstone bakery to buy a scone for breakfast. It reminds Draco of the War, of Voldemort’s rise to power and how the amount of dark magic going around meddled with the weather. This is obviously not what’s happening now; it’s just an extremely long prelude to spring, but it’s ominous enough to slightly unsettle Draco.

The uneasiness starts making more and more sense in the afternoon when he’s taking time to drink a cup of tea and watch over his quill filling out patient files. A weathered, soaked owl knocks on his office window, carrying a rolled up piece of parchment sealed with the Malfoy coat of arms imprinted in wax.

Draco unrolls the parchment, immediately recognizing his mother’s handwriting.

*

It’s 6PM and Harry should be home by now, but things hardly ever work like that in the Auror Department. He’s in the middle of an interrogation and wants to see it through even if the jewel thief he captured this morning has an extremely heavy Scottish accent and occasionally just blows magical bubbles out of his mouth instead of answering questions, just to annoy Harry.

The door to the interrogation room opens to reveal Momoko, Harry’s new partner, just shy of 20 years old but still leagues above his former trainee McLaughlin when it comes to intelligence, physical fitness and willingness to follow orders. She’s slightly worn out now, having been filling out paperwork for the last hour or so, a pencil holding her hair in a messy updo. The thief starts blowing bubbles again at the sight of her.

“Draco Malfoy’s here to see you, boss. He says it’s, I quote, confidential and extremely urgent.”

“Does he now,” Harry inquires, a little doubtful, smelling another ploy to perhaps cancel the Weasley dinner or something equally trivial. Although, to think of it, Draco never shows up at Harry's work; the only time he did was to give an official deposition as a St Mungos representative in one of the Department’s cases.

“Yup. Honestly, Harry, he looks all kinds of nervous, so you better go to him. I’ll finish up here,” Momoko grins, cracking her knuckles while looking at the thief, not intimidated by him in the slightest.

“No physical violence, Momoko, you know the drill, right?” Harry pats her shoulder on his way to leave the room.

“Is psychological terror alright?” she yells after Harry before he closes the door.

Draco, most likely cleared by Momoko to enter the office area, is waiting by Harry’s desk in the small cubicle. He turns into a blur of black clothes and platinum hair when he all but throws himself into Harry’s arms upon the very sight of him.

Okay. So it _is_ something serious.

“Draco? What’s going on?”

Draco’s got his arms wrapped around Harry’s neck in an abnormal public display of affection, even if the department is almost completely empty at this hour, he smells like the rain and he’s shaking slightly. Harry hugs him back, convinced that they can handle whatever might be happening, but giving Draco time to get ready to actually tell him.

After a solid minute of embracing each other in the middle of Harry’s workplace, they pull away and Draco wordlessly hands Harry a piece of parchment, which appears to be a letter from… Narcissa Malfoy? “They can’t do that, right? Please tell me they can’t.”

Harry skims the letter. _Dearest Son… An opportunity… An amount of funds large enough… Your valuable contribution… Restoring the honor of our family and, most of all, the freedom of your father…_ “Wait, what?”

“Yes, Harry, _what_ indeed. You tell me.”

“She can’t be serious. You can’t just post _bail_ to get someone out of Azkaban, especially not someone with your father’s record. There’s no law like that.” Harry is pretty sure, unless something happened while he was wiping up bubble foam from the interrogation room table.

“Apparently there is now. Or there’s gonna be. Mother isn’t too clear on that one. I’m -” Draco stops, which makes Harry look up from Narcissa’s scrawl to his boyfriend’s face. He’s pale, paler than usual, and stiff as an ironing board from the stress. “I’m going to lose my mind if that happens.”

“It won’t.” Harry, because all he knows is action, and because he can’t stand seeing Draco terrified for a second longer than necessary, reaches for the other man’s hand. “Let’s go see Hermione. We could ask my boss, but he went home already. Though I’m sure Hermione knows what’s going on, if anything”

“Right. Good idea.” Draco turns to grab his coat which is hanging off the back of Harry’s office chair. His gaze seems to catch on a couple of photos stuck to the wall of the cubicle. Before Harry realizes what’s happening, Draco pulls one photo off and shoves it in Harry’s face. “How lovely of you to keep a photo of your spouse at your workplace,” he says, tone dripping with sarcasm. The photo is of Harry and Ginny, the woman giving him a kiss on the cheek, Harry laughing. God, that was forever ago, Harry realizes when he takes the photo in. He doesn’t remember feeling that happy with her in… well, ever. But apparently they were once.

“I- I haven’t had time to redecorate in a while.” Seriously, he hadn’t. The photos became something he looks at everyday and doesn’t even _see_ anymore. Draco is the only thing he sees now, currently very angry on top of his wrecked nerves. A vertical frown paints on his forehead.

“Must have been a long while,” Draco mutters through gritted teeth, staring at the picture in Harry’s hands, the tiny rendition of Ginny raising her fingers in a peace sign. It’s only a stupid photo, but Harry’s angry at himself for leaving it up for so long. It’s not okay to Draco, so Harry crumples the photo in his fist and throws it in the bin.

“There. Done. It didn’t mean anything. We’re not gonna fight about it here and now, are we?”

“No. We might later, though. After we see Granger.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, reaching out to touch Draco’s arm, and the other man doesn’t shake off the touch, so that’s something. “I should have done that a long time ago.”

“You should’ve,” Draco mutters, but his voice is a little softer and he stays close to Harry while they make their way out through the Ministry corridors.

*

“You guys look… wet?” Ron states the obvious when he opens the door for Harry and Draco. It’s considered rude to Floo in when showing up unannounced, so they had to disapparate from outside the Ministry building. That, and the young Weasleys didn’t exactly have a porch or anything that would protect a weary traveler from the rain, just a couple of steps in front of the door. “Something wrong?”

“We don’t know yet,” Harry says when Ron steps aside to let them in, quickly casting a drying charm on them both. The two old friends share a brief hug before Ron moves to do the same with Draco, which always makes Draco freeze up. Not today though; he can’t be forced to care about something as small as this now, so he pats Ron’s back almost as enthusiastically as Ron pats his.

“We gotta talk to Gra - Hermione. Is she here? Is she - available?”

“She is,” answers a voice from the doorway to the living room, dark except from a golden glow of a lamp. Hermione’s hair is as wild as ever and her face a little tired, currently devoid of a smile, but she’s still got this magical aura about her. Maternity suits her; Draco can honestly say she’s never looked better. “Rose just went out like a light, but it won’t last.” She stops, wringing her hands, pulling down the sleeves of her sweater, and a thought hits Draco like a blow of wind when she looks at him. She _knows_. “I just - I found out this morning, Draco. I didn’t have time to contact you, I thought maybe -”

“Let’s all sit down, alright?” Ron gently ushers the three of them inside the living room. Hermione takes the armchair while Harry and Draco sit down on the sofa. Draco can feel Harry’s hand closing around his in reassurance. That’s good. He needs anything he can get now, but especially for Hermione to finally start talking.

“My assistant just told me this morning. She was picking up the files and bringing me some new ones, because I don’t go into work myself yet, Rose is still too small, and apparently there was a preliminary voting in the Wizengamot overnight… There is a group that supports the idea of… well, bail, essentially.”

“Bail? As in-” Ron asks from the floor where he’s seated, and Harry rushes to explain the idea while Draco hands Hermione the letter from his mother.

She reads it carefully, mouthing some of the words and worrying her nail between her teeth.

“Draco, I wouldn’t worry if I were you. The idea came to life mostly because our law enforcement system has become crazy efficient lately - almost too efficient, no offense, Harry-”

“Only _some_ taken.”

“They just want all the petty thieves and street fight starters and one-time Crucio users to be out of Azkaban, doing community service or staying on house arrest, it’s not even specified yet. The loophole, though, is that _all_ sentenced criminals would be eligible for bail; a higher amount of it would be required to release those convinced of more serious crimes, of course. I don’t think the supporters of this bill considered the possibility of anyone willing to pay _that_ much for a former supporter of Voldemort to be free again.”

“It’s not an amount my mother can’t gather, even without my contribution. Because obviously I refuse to participate in -” Draco’s terrified to realize his voice is breaking. No, please not now, please not in front of the Weasleys. He squeezes Harry’s hand just a little tighter for reassurance, trying to ground himself. “She’s not getting a sickle from me.”

Ron and Hermione exchange a look that deeply unsettles Draco. “You were saying, Mione, that Draco shouldn’t worry though.”

“Yes, yes.” Hermione checks herself, forcing a smile at Draco and Harry. “The preliminary voting means nothing. Now the entire Wizengamot and, basically, the entire Department staff - including myself - will be scrutinizing the bill, picking at it, basically finding out all the ways in which it won’t work. It will perish in the actual voting, Draco. I am sure of that.”

Hermione is an intelligent girl, and it’s not just book smarts anymore. She’s got life experience, she traveled and fought alongside Harry Potter and then climbed the Ministry ranks lightning fast to one day just decide she’s going to have a baby now, and still be just as professionally active. Draco really, really wants to trust her, and not this anxious feeling settling down in the middle of his chest and spreading through his entire body from there.

A baby’s cry sounds from another room just as Draco is trying really hard to breathe. “I got it, babe,” says Ron, rising up from the floor and dropping a kiss to his wife’s forehead as he leaves to take care of Rose. Hermione remains in her armchair, but Draco's already feeling that they're overstating their welcome, so he gives Harry's thigh a suggestive tap.

“Thank you, Hermione.” Harry gets up then, quick to get Draco’s suggestion, and Draco follows him. “Stay in touch, alright? If you find out anything new, please let us know.”

“I will, promise. Please don’t lose sleep over that though. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Malfoy is feeding a very unlikely illusion.” Hermione rubs at her eyes. “Do you guys want to stay for dinner? I don’t think we have enough for four people, but we can whip something up quickly if you’d-”

“That won’t be necessary,” interjects Draco. “We have some leftovers from yesterday in the fridge. Get some sleep.”

“Right. I’ll try,” she chuckles. “Goodnight.”

Draco, still holding Harry by the hand, apparates them back home.

*

“Yesterday’s leftovers? I don’t think we even have any _sauce_ left, let alone actual food…”

“Come on, that was obviously a lie. I just wanted to go home already. Also I’m not hungry.” Draco sends his coat back to the wardrobe with a lazy wave of his wand, kicks off his shoes and makes way to the bathroom where Harry can hear him opening and shutting cabinet doors as he himself stares into the empty fridge. There’s indeed nothing there. He notices a power bar abandoned on the counter, so he eats that in two bites, tosses the wrapping and heads for the bedroom.

Draco is brushing his teeth in the en suite, his clothes already off and folded away, the man wearing just boxers. Harry, because he’s not nearly as neat and organized and never really aspired to be, takes his shoes off and climbs on top of the covers fully dressed. Draco will frown at him, but eventually give up and do nothing about it, and Harry will remember to take his clothes off before actually going under the covers.

Harry’s second relationship is so different than his first one.

With Ginny, they lived in comfortable disarray. They would clean up when they really, really had to, like when they had someone coming over, but in that case, the mess would mostly just migrate to their bedroom which the guests didn’t see. Ginny was often gone, training retreats and away games taking up a lot of her time, leaving Harry alone to grow facial hair and eat Chinese takeout for four nights a week not because he couldn’t cook, but because he didn’t feel like doing it just for himself. Harry can’t see any of the above happening with Draco, who is a creature of order, lowkey neurotic about always putting things back where they belong as soon as possible, and who mastered a multitude of cleaning charms. It balances out Harry’s slightly chaotic ways nicely.

Everything was always a little too much with Ginny. They laughed too loudly, fought too passionately, loved too much and too fast. They both liked to do things first and think about them later, and it always brought upon a metaphorical headache. Harry really appreciates Draco’s calmer, more analytical approach to everything.

From the bed, Harry can see his boyfriend by the bathroom sink. The day has clearly taken a toll on him; it’s evident in the way he’s staring at his own reflection in the mirror and then reaches to the cabinet where he keeps carefully measured doses of different potions.

Harry can feel the sweet, syrupy smell of Draught of Peace even from the distance. His brain automatically brings up the side effects to this potion, the most serious one being the possibility of falling into an irreversible sleep. Draco is a Healer though. He would never let this happen, he would never take or administer a potion without being one hundred percent sure it’s perfectly measured.

Draco lingers in the bedroom doorway for a while, just looking at Harry, and his face is unreadable, like there’s too many emotions fighting for the lead and none powerful enough to actually surface.

“Well, are you coming?” Harry asks, impatient to touch him, kiss him, feel him close.

“I’m weighing in the pros and cons,” Draco teases, mischief tugging his lips into a smirk.

“What possible cons can there be?”

Draco shrugs, turning the bathroom lights off and finally joining Harry in bed. Instinctively, he situates his head on Harry’s chest, cuddling into the fabric of his sweater.

“Do you wanna fight about the Ginny photo now?” Harry inquires, attempting to massage some of the tension off the muscles of his boyfriend’s shoulders.

“Now? When I’m medicated? That’s low, Potter. I’m obviously not in the mood to fight.”

“Which is exactly why I’m bringing it up now.”

“I don’t care about the stupid photo. You don’t even sit at that desk much, I know that for a fact. Besides,” Draco raises his head and turns to look at Harry. His hair is all messed up and the frown gone from his forehead, the poison working its magic; Harry just needs to remember to not mention the whole Lucius thing tonight, or maybe ever, unless Draco wants to. “She’s in an old photo with you. So what? I got the real thing.”

It's such a stupidly kind, loving sentiment that it pulls on Harry's heartstrings. He can't wait any longer before kissing Draco, all tender and careful, slowly chasing the feeling of belonging right here, right now, with this person that makes his heart sing. Harry was sure it was only an expression before, not an actual feeling.

The two of them, this is home. Harry has had other homes before, but he finally feels like he's creating one himself.

“You wanna go to sleep now?” Harry asks, seeing as Draco's eyelids are becoming heavier by the minute.

“Obviously not. I want you to make gentle, sensual love to me.” Draco's voice is soft, the words dragged out. Whenever he takes the potion (which is, if Harry's correct, luckily not that often), it always makes him relaxed and pliant.

“Alright, but are you gonna fall asleep during?”

“It’s honestly very likely.”

With a grin, Harry rolls them both into a comfortable position so they’re facing each other, Draco already clinging, mouth latching onto Harry’s neck, cold hands brushing against the warm skin of Harry’s stomach as he undoes Harry’s jeans.

“Get on with it, you have about fifteen minutes before I’m dead to the world.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He makes short work of his clothes and Draco’s underwear, his gorgeous boyfriend spread out naked on the sheets with a head hopefully devoid of any disturbing thoughts. He’s half-hard already, their relatively chaste kisses from before having done enough, so Harry takes him into his mouth for a while, bracing his hands on Draco’s sides, rolling his tongue around Draco’s length. “Good boy,” Draco whispers, gripping Harry’s head to add some edge he likes so much. Harry doesn’t want to make him come like that, so he pulls away relatively quickly, climbing up Draco’s body to look him in the eyes again. A moment like that needs to be verbally acknowledged.

“Is this really what you want?” Harry asks, noticing how Draco is having difficulty keeping his eyes open.

“Yes. I really need this. Please,” Draco whispers back, arms wrapped around Harry’s middle, both of them floating on this unknown cloud that only comes to life when they’re together. If Draco needs it, Harry is more than happy to provide.

Draco doesn’t actually fall asleep in the middle of things. He stays vaguely awake, even if his grip on Harry’s hips as he’s laid flat on his back is almost non-tangible at times, and if he doesn’t make a single sound. Harry’s used to that; Draco’s hardly ever vocal. His pleasure is more evident in the movements of his body. Tonight, Harry is all about gentleness and softness, Draco letting him know that he found _the_ spot by pressing his fingernails into Harry’s skin. Harry’s almost on the edge himself by then, pounding away just a few more times until he comes with a single whimper, his legs giving out, lips clumsily pressed to Draco’s collarbone. Next thing he does is take Draco in his mouth again, making sure his boyfriend comes and they don’t make a mess because at this point they’re both too out of it for cleaning charms.

It’s quiet after that. The rain is steadily pounding against the windows outside, but they don’t say anything, wrapped up in each other. Harry’s almost sure Draco is asleep, because he can hear his calm, steady breathing, but it turns out to not be true when Draco presses his lips to Harry’s temple and starts whispering.

“I love you so much, Harry. I don’t know why you even bother with me most of the time, but I’m glad you do.”

Harry nearly feels hurt at the statement, but then he remembers Draco’s drugged and almost asleep and his mental filters are off. “I bother because you’re a good person, even if you don’t think you are. We’ve had this conversation before. Now sleep, alright?”

Lazily, Draco smiles, his fingertips resting lightly on Harry's chest somewhere. “I'm sleeping, Golden Boy. Look. Eyes closed and all.” He does close his eyes then, the smile fading ever so slowly as he curls on the pillow, Harry finding a spot next to him and watching him peacefully drift away.

Harry stays awake for a long while after that, battling intrusive thoughts of estranged fathers.

*

Anger used to be the only red hot feeling Draco knew. The way it flared up his gut, blurred his vision, consumed him in a way that left him hollow, tired, sometimes uncomfortable.

There's another red hot feeling he knows now that's even more powerful than anger. It's love.

It burns in a seemingly quiet fire underneath Draco's skin all the damn time. Only seemingly, because he can hear it roaring in his ears constantly, and it makes him see things differently, too. It envelops him upon witnessing basically anything Harry does. _Love_ for this man, crimson and warm anytime Harry squeezes Draco's hand, steadying him through a particularly difficult social situation. _Love_ whenever Harry remembers not to put salt in Draco's serving of scrambled eggs on Saturday mornings. _Love_ whenever Harry snaps awake at the ass crack of dawn, disturbed by one of his recurring nightmares, and clings to Draco with his entire body letting Draco whisper in small useless words that everything is going to be just fine.

 _Love_ in moments like this one, when he sees Harry’s miserable attempts at taming his own hair a little for the Weasley dinner. Messy hair or not, he's wearing tight grey slacks and a sleek black sweater he totally stole from Draco with a white shirt collar poking out from underneath it, and if Draco's breath gets stuck in his throat for a second that's quite understandable.

“You look… I was gonna say good, but no, that’s not the word I’m looking for. You look very hot.”

Harry turns to him with a dorky smile that somehow doesn't ruin the overall impression. “Hot, you say? Would you take me home if you met me at a bar?”

“No, you slut.” Draco crosses his arms, much to Harry's offence.

“No? Why the hell not?”

“Because I have a boyfriend whom I love very much, thank you.”

Harry laughs then, a throaty sound guaranteed to send a flare of arousal right to Draco's gut. Which would be great if he wasn't busy trying to pretend he's not nervous. “You look stunning yourself, but that's kind of a given.” Harry approaches Draco, gently smoothing down the lapels of his black cardigan that reaches his ankles and floats behind him as he walks, like a more casual cloak. The rest of his outfit is just pale blue jeans and a white shirt, magically ironed so it would never crease. “I promise you it's gonna be fine, babe. They all _know_ I'm bringing you. So their choking-on-tea moment has long passed.”

“But they're _Weasleys_. Shouldn't they, I don't know, hate me on principle?”

“No. That's more of a Malfoy thing, isn't it?”

They make it to The Burrow on time. Ron is the one who opens the door, little Rose strapped to his chest in a complicated sling, and Draco is aware he breathes a visible sigh of relief. That’s one - or two, actually - Weasleys he already knows his way around.

“Deep breaths, Malfoy. Mum’s has been walking on pins and needles cleaning the entire house today so it’s safe to say she’s just as nervous as you are.”

“I’m not nervous, Weasley.”

“Of course not,” Ron winks, _the audacity_ , and pats him on the back with sympathy Draco doesn’t want or need. “They’re here, Mum!”

“Merlin’s beard, already? Nobody ever arrives on time,” Molly Weasley speaks in the general direction of nobody as she waddles into the hallway, her eyes darting from Harry to Draco to Harry and back a couple times. Harry steps forward to give her a warm, comfortable hug, and then it strikes Draco in a painful way: they’re family. If he wants a life with Harry Potter, and he really does, he has to learn to deal with not only Ron, Hermione and the occasional Neville and Luna, but everybody else too; Molly and Arthur, so despised by his father; Ministry’s most faithful servant Percy and his American wife; the loud and obnoxious George, Angelina and their probably loud and obnoxious kids, and yes, Ginny too, even if they’re both going to absolutely hate that.

“Oh, my. You’re so tall!” Molly finally releases Harry and makes her way towards Draco. Unsure what to do, hands awkwardly glued to his sides, he lets her wrap him in a hug as well. She smells of herbs and cocoa and barely reaches his chest. “Welcome, son. Feel at home.”

“Th-thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” Draco manages to choke out, blush flooding his face. Harry’s ex mother-in-law just called him _son_. Meanwhile, Draco’s own mother gave Harry a speech about how much she didn’t trust him.

“Call me Molly, alright? Mrs. Weasley makes me feel awfully old.”

“Alright. Yes. No problem.”

Her bright smile doesn’t feel rehearsed. If Narcissa tried that, her face would burst at the seams.

Draco follows Harry and Molly to the living room, real fire burning in a real fireplace that hosts a collection of family photos on top. An array of mismatched sofas and armchair is an assault on Draco’s sense of aesthetic, yet somehow conveys the atmosphere of coziness and hospitality. Hermione occupies one of the sofas along with Arthur Weasley; she seems to be showing him her newest Muggle mobile phone.

“Harry, Draco, you made it!” With enthusiasm not really matching the situation, she leaps out of her seat to give them both hugs. Why did Draco’s life suddenly change to involve so many fucking hugs? Where did he go wrong? Hermione’s embrace, to make things worse, contains a reassuring squeeze to Draco’s arm. It’d be _great_ if they all stopped coddling him right about now.

At least Arthur Weasley doesn’t try to hug him. They shake hands, a gesture warm, but the older man’s gaze on Draco careful. There’s so many things Draco should say right now, like _I apologize for my father, I don’t share his prejudices anymore, I hope he rots in Azkaban where he belongs._ “Thank you for welcoming me in your home, Mr. Weasley,” he manages to mumble, and Arthur smiles a little.

“Of course. Harry saved my life, you know,” he replies, looking towards Harry who’s currently holding little Rose under Ron’s watchful eye. “He vouched for you, and I have no reason to doubt his judgement.”

That’s good. Better than Draco expected, really. It becomes a little easier after, when George and Angelina arrive with their kids and Percy and Audrey without theirs (“We’re just enjoying our time away from them, Dad. You’ll see them in two weeks, no need to make a fuss”). Nobody is surprised to see Draco there, which proves Harry really did tell them, and nobody else except from Audrey tries to hug him. Molly shuffles everyone to the dining table where they end up seated in complete disarray, Draco squeezed in between George on his left and Percy on his right. Percy seems to be enjoying the arrangement a little too much.

“Say, Draco, I have this friend from work who came down with the strangest rash on his neck. It’s red by day, but green at night, and -”

“Let the boy be, Percy,” says Angelina, her presence by the Weasley table just as powerful as it was in the Quidditch pitch years ago. “He’s not at work now, is he? He's trying to enjoy dinner, we all are.”

“That’s alright,” Draco replies, because honestly, he doesn’t mind. He swallows a spoonful of delicious, spicy pumpkin soup. “It’s a side effect of an underperformed Instant Hygiene spell. Tell your friend to rub it with mint leaves for a couple nights in a row. And a proper shower always works better than Instant Hygiene spells.”

As more and more tasty food keeps flying in from the kitchen, the plates piling up with no house elves to take them away, Draco can’t help but wonder if this is what life is like if you have a normal family: a father who laughs at your jokes, a mother who’s not afraid to hug you, siblings who are annoying at times but who also never let you feel alone. It’s strange imagining families like this exist and that _this_ is something people take for granted, he’s thinking as Arthur Weasley laughs his booming laugh. Draco almost gets choked up on an unknown emotion. He looks across the table at Harry to ground himself, they lock eyes and Harry _knows_ , it’s right there in his gaze clear as day; he understands because he also never had that growing up, but this family found him and made him one of theirs. No breakup, no divorce was ever going to change that. Harry gives Draco a tiny smile, a wordless _you get it now, do you?_ , and Draco does get it, like he’s perhaps never gotten anything before. And damn, does it feel good. So good he wants to stay a part of it forever. So good he casually starts a conversation with George, unprompted, to feel like a part of it even more.

Still, the lack of Ginny’s presence sticks out like a sore thumb. For Draco, perhaps that’s for the best, considering how their previous meeting went, but Harry is visibly thrown off by this. Draco notices Molly whispering something to him at one point, Harry nodding with a melancholic smile. _She just wasn’t ready. Harry is happy now, and she’s not._

They stay for a long while, after Percy and Audrey have already left to put their kids to bed and after little Roxanne falls asleep curled up on an armchair like a cat. Hermione and Ron disappear too, so Harry takes over explaining smartphones to Arthur and Draco offers to help Molly clean up, bringing all the plates from the table to the kitchen.

He's not even using magic, afraid he might drop and break something, which would not be ideal considering the Weasleys’ hospitality tonight.

The dishes are already washing themselves before he brings a second load and sets it carefully next to the sink. Molly wipes her hands on a kitchen rag and smiles.

“Thank you, Draco. Always better to carry them by hand, I swear I break a plate or two every other day just from being too lazy and levitating everything,” she says, waving her wand to dry some of the already clean dishes. “I hope you enjoyed dinner?”

“Everything was delicious, thank you,” Draco answers politely, somehow feeling tense and like _this,_ the seemingly innocent small talk in the kitchen, is the real trail he's being put through.

“You know that's not what I mean,” Molly replies, putting Draco under a scrutinizing, but understanding gaze, and continuing when he doesn't immediately reply. “When Harry told us you two were together, I was properly shocked, not gonna lie. This boy is like a son to me and I want what's best for him, and if it didn't work out with Ginny, it didn't work out, right? No need to point fingers and blame anybody.”

Draco nods, still staying silent.

“Anyway, he tells us he's dating young Malfoy and I'm telling you my slippers nearly fell off. You two were school enemies! We're not living in a romantic work of fiction where it would be a natural outcome,” she smirks with one corner of her mouth. “But now that I've seen you two together, the way you talk to each other, the way you behave… I get it. Harry’s happy, you make him happy somehow, so you must possess a very unique kind of magic within you,” she punctuates by tapping her index finger on Draco's chest, somewhere around where his heart should be. Draco has no idea what the special kind of magic actually is. He just loves the stupid git, and Harry happens to love him back.

“I really enjoyed dinner, Mrs. Weasley,” he tries again, looking Molly in the eyes this time, and she lights up.

“I'm really glad you did, Draco. And please, for Merlin's sake, call me Molly.”

It’s nearing 11PM before they come back home. They don’t need to open this bottle of Firewhiskey, but Draco still does just because he feels like it, and this freedom is one of his favorite things about adulthood. He doesn’t open the balcony door, but sits down on the floor in front of it and settles for watching the drenched, nighttime London through the glass. Not even three minutes in he feels Harry’s arms snaking their way around his neck.

“On the floor? Kinky,” Harry giggles into his ear, sliding down to sit on the floor next to him, but not before he Accios two sofa pillows to make the experience slightly more comfortable. Draco hands him one of the glasses filled with liquor. “There. Do you wanna toast to you surviving your first Weasley dinner? And doing wonderfully, by the way?”

“Obviously.” Draco clinks his glass against Harry's and takes a long sip. His heart feels significantly lighter. “It's not like I had any doubts I would do great. Did you? You know I'm amazing with people.”

Harry snorts. “You're a goddamn bastard is what you are,” he says, but affectionately, and rests his head on Draco's arm in a slow, quiet moment where they're both lost in their own thoughts until Draco decides to speak and ruin everything.

“Hey Harry, did you ever - actually, you know what, nevermind.”

“No, come on, spill it. Did I ever what?”

Draco takes a deep breath, shocked at himself that he’s apparently not going to chicken out. He really should. “Did you ever think about having kids?”

Harry sits up straight again, and looks at his own hands first. He watches the Firewhiskey swirl around in the glass, and then stares through the balcony window searching for answers in the city lights.

“I mean - I mean, yeah. With Ginny - Ginny liked the idea a lot.”

“Oh. Right.”

Harry keeps talking with slight difficulty. “We’ve made plenty of plans for the future, she was going to retire from Quidditch at some point before turning thirty and we would have kids then. So, yeah. She really wanted kids.”

“And you didn’t?”

“I’m - I’m an Auror, Draco. It’s not exactly the safest profession, as you're probably aware. So no, I was never fully sold on the idea of bringing a human life into the world and creating another orphan like myself if I happen to die on the job, you know.”

“Oh,” Draco says, embarrassingly, again.

“Yeah. But Ginny used to tell me how unlikely it was for both of us to die out of the blue, especially since the War was over. She tried to placate me, I figured there was a lot of time before we’d actually have to make that decision and I sort of pushed it aside.”

“I get that.”

“It just - Wait. Hold the fuck up, Draco Malfoy.” The tone of Harry’s voice drastically changes from serious and somber to curious, playful and a little surprised, and he grabs Draco by the chin to catch his gaze. “Do _you_ want to have children?”

“What?! No, no way. Have you met me? I’m too selfish for that.” Draco attempts to push Harry away, but he’s unsuccessful, so he withstands the invigilation.

“Hey, babe. Hey. You can talk to me, right? You can tell me. Honestly. Do you want to have kids someday?”

Draco deflates. Why does he ever fucking _speak?_ “I - Harry, I know we’ve only been together for like two minutes. I’m not out to jeopardize it by making some idiotic plans for the future that might never happen.”

Harry lets go of Draco’s chin to grab him by the wrist, so tightly it nearly hurts. His eyes lit up with something brave, reckless and frankly dangerous, the Gryffindor in him painfully evident. “But what if - what if it were to happen? What if we were to last, because hell, I feel like we just might - what then? Would you want to raise a kid with me someday?”

Draco takes a moment to listen to the rain and his own pounding heart. He tries to imagine having a big dinner table like the Weasleys someday, a place that joins people so different from each other yet all connected with an indescribable _feeling,_ he tries to imagine his boyfriend as a father, loving, playful, capable, and it works for a second until he attempts to imagine being a father himself, he remembers Lucius and it all comes crashing down along with the dinner table they never even had. He’s being delusional. But Harry doesn’t deserve to suffer his paranoia. “Only if you wanted that too. Just as much as me.”

“Okay.” Harry pulls him in softly, their foreheads and noses touching, and marks the moment with a short, warm kiss. “We’ve got plenty of time to figure it out.”

Draco would absolutely _love_ to fully believe that.

*

Nothing is okay about the fact that it starts snowing in the middle of April, and not just some sleet, no, actual proper heavy snowfall coating the city in white, the icy cold fluff sticking to Harry’s hair and his old Gryffindor scarf as he takes a short walk from a nearby Waitrose supermarket to Draco’s - their - apartment.

The place is quiet and empty. He drops the groceries in the kitchen and turns the lights on, wondering if Draco’s been held up at work, which wouldn’t be unusual or surprising. Harry decides to text him, hoping against hope that he’ll learn to carry his mobile phone with him someday and actually check the messages or pick up the calls (Draco's been trying, it's just that he's still a little dismissive of Muggle technology). As Harry’s got his phone in his hand, a message from Hermione arrives. He starts reading it standing in the kitchen, but finishes seated on the living room sofa, battling an ever-unpleasant sensation of shock and disappointment.

_Awful news - the bail bill just passed through Wizengamot. Enters into force in a week. There’s a huge pushback already, I’m back at work, trying to help smooth things down. We can appeal no sooner than in 2 weeks. Sorry… Tell Draco I’ll make it right. Keep you posted_

So there it is again: the worst case scenario. A metal fist of fear grabs Harry by the throat. Where the fuck is Draco? If he just got the news too, and knowing his mother he most likely did, he should not, by any means, be alone. Lucius leaving Azkaban was not the end of the world, but Draco needed Harry to understand that, see the bigger picture. Most of all, he just needed support more than anything right now.

A phone call seems quicker and more efficient than a tracing spell, so Harry decides to just call first, but his hand brushes against something stuck between the sofa cushions. It’s a scrap of paper - a letter, or rather half of it, crumpled and torn apart, covered in Narcissa Malfoy’s elaborate handwriting.

There’s no need for Harry to read it.

“ _Accio_ Narcissa’s letter,” he says, another half of the page flying to him from in front of the en suite bathroom door.

 _Oh, Merlin_ . Harry looks danger in the eye almost every day, remembering some things and situations need to be feared only out of pure self-preservation, but his job has nothing on this, the way all of his organs twist at the very possibility of Draco _not being alright._

Harry checks the bed first; it’s pristine and untouched like they left it early in the morning. A subtle whimpering sound from the dark bathroom finally reveals the secret though.

 _It’s not the end of the world._ “ _Lumos,”_ Harry whispers, pushing the door with his heart in his throat.

“No, don’t,” Draco cries in a broken voice, shielding his eyes from the light. Harry dims it, letting his wand float in the air so he can look at his boyfriend, seated naked in the half-empty bathtub, the water having gone cold ages ago. He's covering his face, but it's still evident that he's been crying, his body shivering from the muffled sobs and the cold as well. His hair is dripping wet and there's an angry red scratch on the pale reminder of the Dark Mark on his wrist.

This is bad. So, so bad. Harry’s knees hit the moist floor, elbows hit the bathtub edge and his heart takes a rollercoaster from his throat down to the very bottom of his stomach. He pulls both of Draco’s freezing hands away from the other man’s face and Draco grabs him, all his strength, terror leaking out of his eyes in the form of tears as he’s gasping for one breath after another.

“I’m here now. I’m here, Draco. Can you see me?”

Draco nods weakly. Trying not to let feelings overwhelm him, but knowing it’s time to act now, Harry uses sheer force to pull Draco out of the icy bathtub and sits him on the edge of it, casting a hot air charm while simultaneously trying to locate the biggest towel they own. Draco’s got his own arms wrapped around his chest, head hung low as Harry throws the towel over his back and then picks him up to carry him to bed bridal style.

There’s no need for words, not right now, not yet. Gently, Harry deposits his boyfriend on the bed and fully wraps him in a blanket so that only his face is visible. Then he lies down right next to him and envelops him in a tight hug.

Harry tries to turn off his own brain. All thinking needs to halt and his body needs to just be right here, hands rubbing mindless circles into Draco’s flesh through the blanket’s fabric, chin resting on Draco’s bony shoulder. The sobs shaking the other man’s body become sporadic, some rosiness returns to his cheeks and Harry still waits, then waits a while longer before deciding to say something, keeping his voice soft and low.

“Hermione says it’s going to be two weeks before an appeal can be made. I don’t know how it works, but I’m sure she can tell us. It’s - it’s not gonna last forever.” Harry is trying very hard to shine some hopeful light on the situation, but he can’t even say Lucius’s name for fear of sending Draco back down the spiral. Draco’s not the only one who’s terrified.

Lucius Malfoy is an ugly shadow permanently hanging over Draco’s head. He is something that needs escaping from, something Draco’s been trying to separate himself from for years and years on end now. He succeeded, but now the past he’s been working so hard to leave behind is being shoved in his face again. Lucius is going to leave Azkaban and Draco is going to have to confront him.

“Should we both call in sick from work tomorrow?” Harry asks, even though he knows in his soul already what the answer’s gonna be.

“No,” Draco replies, the sound deep and throaty, rough after all the crying he’s done. “I need - I need to be busy to not think about my fucking father. And I have this procedure tomorrow that I’ve been studying for weeks for, I can’t -”

“That’s fine. If that’s what you need, you should totally go to work.” Harry rises up on his elbow to be able to look at Draco and caress his hair, the platinum strands tangling around his fingers. It’s longer than usual; he hasn’t had it cut in a while and it shows, but honestly? Everything looks good on him, the man cursed with carefree grace that Harry could never attempt to match. He’s perfectly fine with it though. “What about now? I’ll make dinner, alright? Luna sent me a recipe, it’s got rosemary in it, I think you’re gonna love it.”

“No, wait,” Draco grabs onto Harry’s hand, not letting him go anywhere. “Don’t - don’t go yet, alright? Ten more minutes?”

“Of course.”

They turn to each other, both lying on their sides and Draco reaches to hold both of Harry’s hands in his. In a move he’s definitely never dared to try before, Harry kisses the shade of the Dark Mark on Draco’s wrist, the red scratch there still hot to the touch of his lips. He catches Draco’s gaze as he does it, a tremor running through the other man’s body, his eyes widening in shock, emergency lights going off. He tries to pull his hand back, but this time Harry is the one to hold on until Draco accepts the touch and even relaxes under it, something in his gaze flickering, dying, waking up to life a completely different entity.

_I don't care who you were before. I only care who you are now, with me, and who we can be together._

It’s so intimate and fleeting it would be insignificant to anybody else, but Harry feels it. He feels love like he never has before, a bond that’s growing more powerful every day, gaining its strength from moments like this one, difficult moments they endure together, and every passing second he feels less crazy for thinking this might last for as long as they want to.

This is _it_. Something people spend lifetimes searching for.

The big time.

The real thing.

*

It’s a weird week leading to Lucius’s release. Draco works, he works and then works some more, gets by on shitty Costa Coffee salads and comes home when Harry’s already in bed, sometimes reading calmly, sometimes already asleep and only stirring when Draco picks up the comforter to get under it, but he’s always warm and welcoming and doesn’t mind when Draco holds him way tighter than necessary in the dead of the night.

Draco wakes up too early to the world still dark and bleak with melting snow, with ephemeral thoughts and ideas of marrying Harry, taking his last name, dying his hair an ugly shade of Weasley ginger and starting a new life somewhere in Australia, leaving it all behind. The sheer fact that he could do all of this if he absolutely needed to somehow keeps him going, and Saturday rolls in way too fast. His father is already home (for as long as the law enforcement allows him to stay), and Draco's supposed to go see him tonight.

“You know that if you don’t want me to go with you, I can stay, yeah?” Harry asks from where his head rests on Draco’s lap as they’re watching a show about home renovation that doesn’t hold the attention of either of them. Muggles have to do so many things by hand it almost saddens Draco. He’s looking at a man on the screen manually painting the walls of his kitchen and it takes a while for Harry’s words to register.

“What are you talking about?”

“Just, like. You know. Maybe you should go alone tomorrow. If your father already knows about me from your mother, you can tell them we broke up. That you weren’t in your right mind, that is was just a meaningless fling and that now you’ve seen the light. Or, you know, whatever. If your mother didn’t tell him anything, you can just pretend it never happened.”

Harry is speaking casually, still watching the stupid Muggles painting their stupid Muggle home with their stupid non-magical hands, like this doesn’t even bother him, like this is just the regular freedom of choice he’s giving Draco, freedom to pretend that he’s not involved with someone who once was, probably still is, everything Lucius Malfoy ever hated. Draco’s words stick to the tip of his tongue and he freezes trying to force them out.

“No.”

“No?” Harry twists around to look at Draco, unconvinced, and then sits up next to him on the couch. “I’m only saying that because it might make things easier for you. With, you know. Your father.”

“You seriously are an absolute moron, Potter,” Draco scoffs. _A meaningless fling_ , alright. As if they could ever. As if they haven’t tried that, as if they haven’t tried that very hard, as if Draco has never found himself battling a panic attack because Harry was bleeding uncontrollably from multiple orifices and Draco wasn’t sure he could fix him up. As if his asshole father’s peace of mind meant more than the unconditional acceptance and unwavering support Draco received from Harry on the daily. As if his father ever pulled him out of a freezing cold bath, carried him to bed and dried his tears. “Touched in the head. I want you to go, alright? First of all, I can’t  - I don’t want to do this alone.”

Harry nods. He’s wearing nothing but an old Chudley Cannons t-shirt, his hair is still a bit wet and curly from the shower, a silver earring shining in his ear and Draco kinda sorta wants to ruin him with his mouth and hands and dick. “And second of all?”

“Second of all -” Draco reaches to grab Harry by the shirt and pull him close, the three inches or so of air between them loaded with electricity. “Second of all, I forgot what I was going to say because you look illegally hot and my brain is currently filled with filth.

“Is that so?” Harry’s not even done speaking when he tears the Chudley Cannons t-shirt off and throws it across the room where it lands covering part of the TV screen. Draco is pushed flat against the sofa cushions and kissed with enthusiasm, immediately opening has mouth under Harry’s. “Maybe we should watch HGTV more often.”

Draco doesn’t dignify this with a response. It’s definitely not thanks to HGTV, it’s rather thanks to Harry’s unrelenting desire to be Good and do The Right Thing that turns Draco on more than it probably should. He lets the heaviness of their previous conversation go and anchors himself to Harry only, flipping them over so Draco’s the one on top, immediately grinding down on his boyfriend, skin dragging against skin.

“Look who’s finally joined me in the world of the living,” Harry quips, getting rid of Draco’s t-shirt just as quickly as he dropped his own, and placing his warm hands on the uncovered expanses of skin. “Good to have you back.”

“Shut up, I had the weirdest week,” Draco replies, knowing why Harry’s saying what he’s saying, but not too happy about it anyway. This is not done yet, and the hardest part comes tonight, which is still a little surreal. He’d rather never leave the present moment. How exactly did he get here, to Harry Potter tonguing on his nipple while a Muggle home renovation show plays in the background, from idolizing his father and trusting him blindly?

Draco wants to laugh, but Harry grabs him by the nape of the neck with one hand and starts palming him through the fabric of his boxers with the other, and the laugh turns into a moan that spills out, uncontrolled. Harry’s playing with Draco’s cock like it’s some kind of a toy he’s fascinated by, making it harder and harder by the second, and their lips connect, slightly uncoordinated but just hot enough.

Draco grinds down, harder, pressing his groin against Harry’s relentlessly, trying to make him shiver, urging him to fall deeper into it, lose control. Their excitement builds in tandem and Draco can feel Harry’s hard-on pressing against the bottom of his thigh.

“I want to bend you over the armrest and make you forget your name,” Draco whispers in between the kisses, enjoying the way Harry’s hands stop moving for a second upon hearing that.

“Oh yeah? Then do it,” the other man replies, starting to pull on Draco’s boxers in a suggestion that they’re no longer needed.

Draco's always liked sex. Except for that dreadful first time with Pansy when they were both sixteen and obviously queer but still wanted to try doing things the _right_ way (which ended up horribly and they both agreed to never ever speak of it), he's been enjoying sex a healthy amount, and with Harry sometimes even an unhealthy amount. His boyfriend is a very unselfish lover, always more focused on pleasing him and catering to his needs, treating himself as an afterthought sometimes. Well, he definitely isn't an afterthought to Draco, especially when Draco’s on his knees sucking his boyfriend's gorgeous dick, showing off how deep he can take it. Harry has his fingers pulling on Draco's hair and he’s fucking whimpering, the sounds so sweet and erotic Draco feels like nothing they do is ever going to be enough to satisfy the dark desire within him.

He pulls away, deliberately looking Harry in the eyes as he gives his dick one last, long stroke and then sucks on two of his own fingers.

“You're going to kill me, you know?” Harry's voice is a bit shaky. Another thing about him, he’s very easy to please and even easier to turn on, so Draco takes advantage of it, but still challenges his own creativity to figure out new ways to surprise him.

“I intend to,” Draco replies, smiling in what he hopes is a wicked and alluring way, and then says, “now turn around.”

Harry leans against the back of the couch, facing away as Draco uses one of his fancy little lubrication spells that he spent forever researching and practicing on anyone who was willing, and then pushes two fingers against Harry's entrance. The warmth and tightness there is so welcoming. He takes some time, happily listening to Harry moan and curse and then moan some more, wondering how long he can last before taking his cock into his own hands.

He lasts a minute or two, maybe three. Time is somewhat of a foreign concept to Draco during sex. The moment he sees Harry's fingers wrapping around his own dick, he decides to end his suffering.

“Okay, you're done here.”

There’s a pained grunt when Draco removes his fingers, but then a breathless sigh when they're replaced with Draco's dick. He doesn't bother going slow and steady, knowing the other man is ready and more than able to take it. “You alright?” he asks just to make sure, and gets an energetic nod in reply. His entire body sticks to Harry's, chest against his lover’s back, hands slowly caressing down Harry's torso to stop on his protruding hips. Draco's knees are almost sliding off the couch and everything feels immensely uncomfortable except for the right fit of their bodies rocking back and forth together. He's too deep into it to think about everything that's going to hurt after.

Harry makes noise. A lot of it, actually. He releases a string of little curses and half-moans and almost-but-not-quite screams when Draco manages to find a particular spot, and this is all well and good because there's nobody else in the apartment and the walls are magically enhanced to be soundproof, Draco made sure of it. So when he clasps his hand over Harry's mouth firmly it's not for practical reasons; it's just for kicks. With one hand there and the other wrapping around Harry's leaking cock Draco’s got no hands left to hold himself up, so Harry braces himself firmly against the couch cushions and holds up both their weights.

The world is a confusing mess of white and red and the smell of Harry's shampoo when Draco bites into the skin on the back of Harry's neck, the orgasm hitting him, and suddenly he's the one with an urge to scream his lungs out. He fights it, riding out the waves as he jerks Harry off and waits for him to finish seconds later.

There's a stain on the couch. Draco quickly grapples for his wand to rectify that and that's everything he's got energy for. He lets the wand fall to the floor, his body limp and exhausted, also falling until Harry catches him and pulls him into his arms, dropping kisses into his hair and wrapping his arms tightly around Draco.

Yeah, Draco would definitely prefer to stay in that very moment forever. Now that the orgasm haze has passed, fear overtakes his entire being again.

“I can't do this,” he says, both to himself and Harry.

“I know. But you're gonna. I've been telling that to myself since I was a kid, and see? I did all the things I thought I couldn't.”

Draco nods, sinking a little deeper into his boyfriend's embrace. But _he_ isn't the Gryffindor golden boy, he isn't The Chosen One, he's just a kid terrified of meeting his father; a kid who definitely doesn’t have Harry's capability to make things happen.

So yeah, the whole “die or die trying” approach? Draco would rather take the death option, thank you.

*

It’s an eerie kind of déjà vu.

Harry is seated at the same place by the Malfoy dinner table as he was the previous time. Narcissa is also at her spot, her satin gloves a different color, and Draco is on Harry’s left, but two empty seats away, wearing an open-collared shirt instead of a turtleneck this time, his grip on a fork unnecessarily tight.

They’re like a photo taken out of time, the small details different only because maybe Harry remembered them wrong.

It’s enough to raise his head a little and look ahead to know what’s changed, though. The seat at the top of the table is taken now.

Lucius does not really look like a man who spent years upon years in a wizarding prison. Sure, he’s a little thinner and a little older than Harry remembers him, but he’s holding his back straight with no effort, his long hair is pulled away from his pointy face in some complicated braid and he’s wearing an expensive black robe with discreet silver patterns. He’s cutting pieces off his steak in measured, deliberate movements, the curl of his lip evil like he’s already tired of pretending everything is in perfect order.

It’s not. Lucius’s son just brought home someone who the older Malfoy still considers his mortal enemy, even if the War is long over. Not only that; Lucius’s son just introduced that someone as his life partner. Harry _so_ should have stayed home.

The gigantic dining room is painfully quiet. Harry doesn’t dare to speak for fear of making things worse somehow, Draco seems like he doesn’t _want_ to speak just out of pure spite, and Narcissa keeps looking to Lucius as if to tune into his current mood and mindset and make any and all decisions from there. There’s a bottle of excellent wine right in front of Harry’s plate but he’s sticking to water, deciding that a clear head would do him good for once. Meanwhile Draco, who didn’t even look Harry’s way once since they rang the doorbell, is on this third glass, a blush slowly overtaking his usually pale cheeks.

This is going to be interesting.

“I find it very disturbing that you’re not asking about how I’m feeling, Draco. I’ve been away for years and you have not shown your concern once tonight.”

Harry finds it hard to understand how he can find Draco attractive and Lucius repulsive, considering they look exactly alike. It's probably in the details, like the way Lucius's face seems like he never smiled in his life unless it was to mock someone; the way he’s making passive-aggressive statements designed to make his son feel bad during a family dinner. This is where they differ. Draco, Harry's Draco, is not like that.

Draco stays quiet, just stabs his potatoes a little harder, his mouth turning into a single tight line. Were they in a cartoon, there would be steam coming out of his head in vapors.

“You don’t want to talk. Well. I’ll have you know that your silence speaks volumes, son,” Lucius says through his teeth, throwing the coldest, shortest look Harry’s way. “Perhaps you’d be more talkative had it been just the family here tonight.”

Draco’s hand jerks towards where his wand is resting on the table. He stops himself though, shakes the hair out of his face and, without looking at Lucius, manages to say, “I am very pleased to see you back home, father. I hope you’re in good health. Mother already told me you were, which is why I didn’t ask.”

It’s not that Lucius seems unhappy with the reply, he just… doesn’t seem satisfied. His cold, calculated stare lingers on Draco. Harry, oblivious, catches eye contact with Narcissa who seems to be on the verge of panic. _Don’t look at me, you’re the one who bailed him out of Azkaban._

Draco’s seated relatively calmly one second, and the next he’s standing, his chair knocked back, a wand in his hand and a wine bottle knocked over, its contents leaking down the table to where Narcissa is. She squeals and tries to move away, nobody paying her much attention because Draco is currently staring down his father, heavily breathing, the steam that’s been collecting within him finally finding its vent.

It’s like a beautiful shipwreck Harry can’t look away from, but it’s also making him a little sick to his stomach.

“You know what, no. I’m not pleased. Nothing about this is alright, nothing! You’re only here because of a stupid legal loophole that will be rectified sooner than you can blink. You shouldn’t even be here. You - you don’t deserve to be here, out and free and eating fucking _steak_ after all the harm you’ve done. You shouldn’t.”

“Now, Draco, no need to be so dramatic,” Lucius replies, in the most icy tone Harry has ever heard. Draco is pressing his wand to his chest defensively, gasping for air like he just ran a marathon. _This is his first time ever standing up to his father_ , Harry realizes, pride and even more fear rising within him. “Sit down and speak to me calmly, if you really wish to have a conversation.”

“A conversation? No, father, I do not. Frankly, I want nothing to do with you. The sole fact that I carry your name is enough for a lifetime of shame.”

Narcissa yelps. Draco endures eye contact with Lucius without a moment’s hesitation, eyes wide, features twisted in anger but solid like a stone. He’s done it.

“I let _Harry Potter_ into my home for you and this is how you pay me back, boy?” Harry’s name falls from Lucius’s lips like a curse, like something ugly and unwanted that’s tainting the Malfoy’s perfect pureblood idea of home and family. “This is not how I raised you.”

“No, you raised me in fake conviction of my own greatness and in contempt towards everything and everyone that didn’t fit your idea of worthy.”

At this point Lucius grabs for his own wand too, but he’s not granted an opportunity to use it since Draco turns on his heels and heads for out of the dining room, swift and focused, not looking back once.

Narcissa is still wearing the same confused, panicked expression. The wine is forming a little red puddle on the floor and Lucius turns to Harry, who promptly kicks into action, standing up from the table and making to leave after Draco.

“Thank you for the food, Mrs. Malfoy. Please tell your house elves it was delicious.”

Nobody comments and Harry nearly giggles to himself as he takes a corner into the hallway, a diligent house elf handing him his and Draco’s coats. Well, they gave it their best shot and almost made it through the main course.

“He's involved with you just to spite me, Mr. Potter!” Lucius yells after Harry and the fact that the Malfoy Manor door is physically incapable of slamming leaves Harry feeling very unsatisfied.

This is bullshit. Harry knows it is, knows that Lucius is not of sound mind, but it still stings. The rainfall outside is extremely heavy, so Harry throws a protection spell over his clothes and tries to figure out where Draco might have gone, hoping to find him before the other man is completely soaking wet.

*

The rose garden is Draco’s second favorite part of the Manor, right after the winter garden right next to his old bedroom. Obviously, all the plant life fared much better in warmer seasons, the current cold rain not doing it any favors. The raindrops are bouncing off tree branches and landing on Draco, soaking into his shirt, mixing with the hot tears flowing down his face.

Nothing much changed about the garden. Nothing much changed about the house, not really, the exact same faint feeling following Draco’s every step he took inside those walls and grounds. Being here Draco could pretend he was a kid again, or a teenager, still happy about his bright, great future, still proud of his heritage and still convinced what his parents were bestowing upon him was love, nothing else. He didn’t know any different, so why was he to assume otherwise? There wasn’t anything he lacked back then, even if the loneliness did creep up on him every once in a while.

He could pretend, but he doesn’t want to. There’s no going back to that kid anymore, as tonight’s dinner demonstrated pretty clearly.

“Here you are.” Harry’s voice comes from behind the tree Draco’s leaning against. The other man approaches him quickly, ever so caring and, honestly, still way too good of a person for their relationship to make any goddamn sense, and throws Draco’s forgotten coat over his arms. “It’s pouring down, stupid. Not too pleasant to be out here, is it?”

Draco shrugs, settling into the coat that Harry obviously just waterproofed with a spell. The thorns of the rose bushes glisten among all the water. This is so embarrassing; how many times does Harry have to see him cry? He’s never seen Harry cry. He’s never even seen Harry lose composure, come to think of it, even when the man was in a hospital bed at the edge of death.

“Draco. Say something, for Merlin’s sake, or at least look at me.”

Draco is not ready to. It seems he’s never ready for things that happen to him in his mess of a personal life, so he just takes a leap of faith and looks up, seeing Harry’s eyes for the first time since they left their apartment, and there’s comfort in knowing they’re still the same shade of green, unchanged like the roses in the Manor garden.

“I hate him so much,” Draco says, feeling Harry grab him by both hands with some yet unnamed emotion. It’s supposed to feel good to say it, but it doesn’t, not at all. It exits Draco’s throat and leaves behind an overwhelming sense of a void. “I am so, so sorry. I just - I hate him.”

Draco is trying to convey so many things in so few words. He wants to apologize for everything: for being a Malfoy, for the old Dark Mark scar that’s going to remain on his skin forever, for his subtly disapproving, unpleasantly surprised mother and for his coldly cruel father. He wants none of these things to define him in Harry’s eyes.

“I know you do. And it’s totally justified for you to hate him. You don’t need to apologize to me for anything.”

“He is my father, Harry. Whether he goes back to Azkaban or not, he’s always going to stay my father. I can’t - I tried running from it. I tried forgetting that. Neither is possible. And I just -” Draco’s voice breaks a little, so he stops and attempts to pull himself together. “I just want you to know that I hate him.”

“Okay.” Harry’s calm, a stark contrast with shivering, whimpering Draco, drenched in the rain and his own tears. “And I love you. Nothing’s gonna change that. Definitely not your father.” In a graceful sweep, Harry pulls Draco into his arms, finds his lips in the low light and kisses him. The embrace is strong and solid and Draco lets himself lean into it, anchor himself in it fully. Love is strangest of all feelings, one that will never stop surprising Draco with its intensity and all the shades it has to offer. Draco grabs onto the back of Harry’s jacket with both hands, the edge of Harry’s glasses knocking against the edge of his nose, and his heart finally takes a calming breath.

“Harry, I -”

Mere inches away from Draco’s face, Harry smiles with one edge of his mouth. “I know. Let’s go home now, okay?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read this story, please leave me a comment to let me know how you liked it! I'll gladly talk about anything.


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